


been there done that messed around

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bakery, Childhood Friends, F/F, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, Murder Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Pushing Daisies AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9663443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: John Silver has a gift. He also has a pie bakery and a tendency to make morally ambiguous decisions for money. His life is bizarre yet simple.When he brings a childhood crush back from the dead, though, then it gets complicated.





	1. Triple Berry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: changed title to lyrics of. uh. bulletproof by la roux

The facts were these: on a sunny autumn day, standing outside of his grandfather’s house in the town of Coeur d'Coeurs, James Flint was fourteen years, eleven weeks, six days, fifteen hours, and two minutes old when he met the love of his life. 

 

One of the multiple loves of his life, to be accurate, but the others were yet to come, too far away from him to even consider in that particular moment. Then, James Flint’s only worry in life was hurrying to get to school on time, as he swung the front gate shut in front of the house.

 

John Silver was twelve years, forty-eight weeks, three days, one hour and thirty-six minutes old when he happened upon the older boy, as he too walked down the road to school. Being a twelve year old boy trying to make a friend before his first day at a new school, any considerate gestures or thoughtful conversation starters were immediately pushed far from mind, in favor of more immature thoughts that sprang to mind. 

 

“If you’ve got red hair,” he shouts from across the street, and the older boy looks up in surprise at the sound, at the strange curly-haired boy who decided to speak to him, a stranger- “Does that mean you ate too many carrots when you were little?” 

 

James scowls. While he’s heard far worse taunts about his hair, he can’t stop the angry flush from climbing up the back of his neck. His voice is a touch shrill when he shouts back rather eloquently, “Shut up!” 

 

The boy just grins at him. “I’m John Silver!” he calls out. James walks away, but to his annoyance, the boy just follows him in the same direction across the road. “I just moved here!”

 

“I don’t care,” he snaps. "Go away."   


 

James quickens his pace, but the boy keeps up, piping up, “My mom says that my hair is so curly because I didn’t eat the crusts on my bread, you know - " 

 

“Well that’s ridiculous,” James says. The boy’s face falls, and for some reason, James feels compelled to add, “Everyone knows that you get curly hair _because_ you eat the crust.”

 

John Silver grins at him then, and he finally crosses the road to join him. James tries not to look at him, even though now they’re walking together, as he’s not keen on encouraging the other boy anymore. But John doesn’t seem bothered by James’s silence, filling the air with his chatter instead as they walk to school. 

 

James is unable to shake his new friend even at lunchtime, or the next day. John meets him again and again in the morning, and then at lunch ever day. Before he knows it, they’ve somehow become friends.

 

John is naturally much more outgoing, but he manages to compliment James’s taciturn nature in a way that fits. They bond over their mutual love for a recent series of comic books and having adventures in the cornfields that surround the town. He tells James about his life in Bristol with his parents before he and his mother moved to Coeur d'Coeurs when his father left them. James tells John how he used to spend weekends hiking and sailing with his grandfather, learning about nature and boats, all before a stroke had rendered him incapable of doing more than going to the store.

 

Despite the fact they’re a year apart in school, John is the closest friend that James has ever had - not that he would ever admit it. They spend most of their time with each other, at each other’s house on the weekends, never getting tired of each other’s company in a way that only children can. Even when John irritates James, and he snaps at the younger boy, he still comes back. It's not long before he can't imagine not having John in his life. 

 

A few weeks after they meet, James meets John’s mother, who is every bit the scatter-brained, endearingly kind person that John had described. She feeds him plenty of pie every time he’s at John’s house, and she seems more than happy that her talkative son has found a loyal friend. James gets the impression that John didn't have many friends, not even in Bristol, but he's not exactly in a position to judge. 

 

Once, he sees John's mother ruffles John’s hair with a flour-covered hand before when they go outside to play. James can’t help the pang of jealousy that rises in his chest after seeing the simple gesture. His grandfather rarely goes beyond greeting in terms of affection, and seeing John's mother smile after them as they run outside - it's a foreign mannerism, one that he envies. His own parents have been dead for enough of his life that he doesn’t miss them, but in that moment, he wonders what it must feel like to be loved in that easy manner - loved unconditionally, and in such simple ways. 

 

But his grandfather loves him, that much is clear, through the way he tries his best to keep up with asking about his studies, eventually asking about John as well. He was never the same after that stroke, forced to spend his days at home, but their life was comfortable - safe.

 

If anything, he finds affection in his friendship with John. They spend hours coming up with elaborate stories and myths, their own small world imagined far beyond the borders of the tiny town they’re trapped in. Together, they weave tales of them being the most feared pirates on the seven seas, looting towns and becoming fabulously wealthy, seeing the world and all the riches it holds. They build cardboard swords and make eye patches out of scrap cloth, envisioning a world far beyond the sleepy town that they live in - a world where they can be whatever they want. 

 

On one particularly sticky summer day, James’s grandfather and John’s mother die. 

 

A terrible coincidence, the neighbors say, that these two friends were so cruelly subjected to these tragedies, forced apart by bad luck. 

 

On the day of the funeral, James watches John disappear on the horizon as the car drives away. He’s being taken to boarding school, some military academy that his grandfather’s will had dictated.  He stares out the back window until John is nothing more than a dark dot against the setting sun, before he turns around to face forward with a stony expression that will become commonplace on his face in the following years. 

 

He doesn’t see John again before he dies. 

 

But then he comes back to life, and everything is strange and yet so hauntingly familiar.

 

It’s a long story, after all.

 

 

•••

 

 

The alarm goes off, the shrill sound piercing the thick veil of sleep surrounding him. John Silver rolls over, blearily slapping at it before the sound goes blessedly mute. 

 

He’s thirty years, twenty weeks, four days and forty-nine minutes old, and at that moment, he wants nothing more than to be blissfully unaware of the world around him. He keeps his eyes shut, and before long he’s close to drifting off to sleep again, the smell of detergent from his sheets thick in his nose.

 

Then Silver jolts awake, rubbing his eyes with a hand as he forces himself to at least sit up. There’s a soft crunch, and he sees a bright green sticky note flutter down to the blanket, dislodged from his forehead.

 

_Get up!! Delivery at 7_ , it reads in Max’s flowing handwriting. Silver grumbles to himself as he crumples the paper into a ball, tossing it on the ground. 

 

The one benefit to living above the bakery is that it’s a short commute to work every day.He manages to pull on a relatively clean shirt, jeans and his sneakers, and makes his way downstairs with a yawn, stretching as he goes.

 

The Pie Hole is already warm when he walks down the staircase, the ancient heater in the corner thrumming. In the early morning, before they’re open, it’s a peaceful place, the familiar black and white checkered floor and red booths all pristine before people can tread dirt inside. The only sound at this time is the faint clattering of dishes, the quiet rumble of cars passing outside, the old pipes in the ceiling that cast a pleasant hum everywhere he goes. 

 

“Max!” Silver calls into the kitchen. “Did the delivery man come by?”

 

Part of their income is their pie delivery service. He’s hired someone to deliver their pies several times a week to the outskirts of the city. They get enough orders from those areas to allow them to break just over even, although Silver needs to have a serious conversation with the man based on the expensive receipts of gas that he’s been paying these last several weeks.  


 

Max's head pops up from behind the counter, and she hoists a bin full of silverware onto the countertop with a bang. “Came and gone while you were still asleep,” she responds testily, her accent strengthened by her irritation. “You forgot to set your alarm.”

 

Max is quite possibly Silver’s closest friend. He had hired her a few years ago when he started the bakery, as she was the only one willing to work for the sum he had promised- there was only so much money to be made making pies, so it turns out- and also willing to put up with his strange behavior. Max was a newcomer to the city, looking for a temporary job that didn't ask too many questions on the gaps in her work history. Silver had interviewed her, and he had told her up front that as long as she wasn't running a crime ring right out of the bakery's back, he didn't care who she was before. 

 

Somewhere along the line, they’ve also become friends, given the hours they spend together most days. John is often the one that Max turns to to complain about her parade of girlfriends, and he makes sure that she takes home the slightly squashed pies at the end of the day. They spent a lot of time drinking and watching terrible television after closing hour, truth be told, but it’s a solid foundation for such a friendship. 

 

Yesterday had been the anniversary of Silver’s mother’s death. Although Max only knew pieces of how she had died, she had arrived at his apartment late last night with a bottle of brandy. They had drunk a large portion of it, and John had presumably passed out in his room eventually, given a headache forming behind his forehead and the dry taste in his mouth. Max, of course, looks like a million bucks, careful eyeliner drawing attention to her sharp, bright eyes as she unlocks the register.

 

(A memory starts to filter back- “I think we should have a nautical theme,” Silver slurs, drunk already and leaning into Max’s arm. “For the bakery, you know, Pie Hole is like like Pie Ho - _Pie Ho_.” 

 

“Boats,” Max agrees, also drunk. “Mermaids. Massive wooden tits and everything.” )

 

Silver grimaces when he sees the pile of napkins that need to be folded, rubbing his forehead. “I have- I need to do the baking. Pies. Can you-”  


 

“Go,” she says, exasperated, already folding some of them. "I’m opening in half an hour.”

 

“You’re a saint,” Silver tells her with a grin, even when she rolls her eyes, and he pushes open the doors that lead to the kitchen. The light from the front of the bakery catches the shiny aluminum surface of the industrial refrigerator as he steps in, the door swinging behind him. 

 

Silver had learned how to make pies from his mother. She had been terrible at cooking, but baking - especially pies - was her gift. From rhubarbs to meringues, he had learned from her as soon as he was able to sit upright, passing her ingredients as she danced around their small kitchen. In many ways, the Pie Hole was an homage to her ghost. He felt closest to her in those early moments of the day, when he was just starting to make pies, each cloud of sugar or drip of syrup in many ways an homage to her memory. 

 

By now, Silver doesn’t even need to glance at a recipe book to cook any of his pies. He preheats the oven, starts to chop the cold butter, laying out pans to assemble the pies. His hands work with a mind of their own, long used to this morning routine. 

 

Silver glances towards the front of the bakery. Through the window in the swinging doors, he can see Max folding the last of the napkins to be placed at the booths, her back to the kitchen. 

 

Silver opens the small fridge where he keeps the fruit, and pulls out a basket of blueberries. They’re shriveled, a nasty brown color that rattles around the container -  long gone bad by now. He needs to reduce them on the stove to make them into suitable pie filling if he has any hope to restock the blueberry pies for the midday crowd. 

 

When he scoops the berries up, they grow vibrant and juicy, blooming into a rich blue-violet color at his touch. He’s careful not to touch them again once they’re in the pan, as he stirs them with a touch of cinnamon and sugar. 

 

“I’m opening, we have customers!” Max calls in his direction, and Silver glances around him to make sure that all the fruit has been used, and the door to the fridge is closed. 

 

“Let them in, then,” he says, turning back to his pies.

 

 

•••

 

 

When John Silver was thirteen years, eighteen weeks, six days, twenty hours and nine minutes old, he discovered that he had a gift. 

 

It had happened as an accident, the very first time. He was sitting in the kitchen, attempting to focus on his math homework, when a fly had run into the wall next to him and bounced off, dead. 

 

He studies the dead bug with detached interest, poking at it with his pencil eraser. He wishes James were there in that moment. He probably would threaten John to do his work, but at least there would be someone to talk to afterward, or at least complain to.

 

John swallows, suddenly aware of the sticky heat from the oven in the room. He looks over at his mother. “How long until the pies are done?” 

 

His mother, from where she was putting a pie into the oven, looks back at him. “Focus on your homework, John,” she chides gently, waving the potholder in front of her in an effort to disperse the heat that’s filtering out of the oven. She looks tired, pieces of her dark hair sticking out from her bun, but her eyes are kind when she looks at him.“You can’t rush pie.”

 

John tries to focus on the paper in front of him, but his eyes keep on drifting back to the dead fly. He glances over at his mother, then back to fly. He dares to touch it with his pinky. 

 

To his surprise, the fly jumps away with a short buzz, flying off the table and out of the house through the open window. John watches it go with his mouth dropped open, but then reasons that it must have been stunned. _Just a strange coincidence_ , he thinks to himself. 

 

“Is James coming over for dinner?” His mother asks, turning from where she was rinsing off a bowl. “I know that boy loves my triple berry pie.”

 

“I asked him, but he said he had to take his grandpa to the doctor’s,” John answers, chewing on the end of his pencil. “Some check-up.” 

 

His mother frowns. “He can’t drive yet though, can he?” 

 

“Yeah, but his grandpa can’t either. James says he’s tall enough anyway.” And that was true- James had recently gone through a growth spurt in the last month, putting him at John’s mother’s height at least by now. 

 

“You tell him that if he ever needs a ride, he should ask us,” John’s mother firmly says, opening the oven to check on the pie. “Would you look at that, this one’s a lovely gold color right now!” She reaches for the pie carefully, straightening to set it on the counter.  


 

John turns back to his homework. “You can’t rush pie,” he jokes, echoing his mother’s earlier words, but then there’s a loud crash. “Mom?” 

 

A few moments before, a blood vessel in his mother’s brain had burst. She dies instantly, dropping to the floor, the pie rolling out of her hands and splattering on the ground next to her. 

 

“Mom!” John exclaims, hurtling out of the chair to kneel on the ground beside her, not caring as the juice from the pie seeps into his jeans. 

 

He touches her arm, and then she’s blinking once again, sitting up unsteadily. “What- John? Did I fall? I need to start cleaning up those banana peels,” she jokes, then looks behind John’s stunned expression to the pie behind him. “Oh, drat, the pie!”

 

John lets out a shuddering breath as she gets up. A freak accident, he reasons to himself, helping her clean up the shards of china and bits of pie crust. _Just a strange coincidence._

 

It’s not until late that night that he finds out the second part of his gift. 

 

He’s getting ready for bed, slipping under his covers when his mother comes in to kiss him goodnight. As soon as her lips touch his forehead, she stiffens and falls to the ground once more, her skin rapidly fading into a blue-gray color. 

 

John stares at her prone form, not processing it at first. He kneels on the ground then, gently touches her arm, then shakes her.

 

But the gift can only be given once. She is dead forever. When John touches something for the second time, it dies forever- and there is nothing that he can do about it. 

 

What he doesn’t know is that just when he was helping his mother clean up the pie earlier that afternoon, another death had occurred. Just a few blocks away, Mr. Flint clutched at his chest and fell out of his armchair, dead before he hit the carpet. James had found him, the newspaper still crumpled in his hand. 

 

Thus, the third, equally terrible part about John’s abilities.There is a cost to his gift, beyond the loss of his mother. When he brought his mother back, the cost was James’s grandfather. If the reanimated dead is not touched again before a minute is up, another life pays the consequences. 

 

John doesn’t learn that fact until the next day, when James visits him at the police station. They weren’t sure what to do with him, the new orphan, so one of the detectives who had arrived at John’s house had taken him in temporarily. 

 

James tells him that his grandfather had suddenly died as well, his face blank in the sickly yellow light of the station. It’s like a low blow to his gut, and he feels sick with guilt -  John knows exactly who is to blame, thinking of the fly on the table. 

 

He’s learned that there are no such think as coincidences, after all.

 

But he can’t just tell James that his grandfather’s death is his fault. He tells himself that James would never believe him - ignroing the part of him that says  _coward_ -  so they sit side by side in the police station in silence, both contemplating their fates.

 

 

•••

 

 

Silver keeps his gift secret for many years. It’s not until he’s the brand new owner of a small bakery, recently named the Pie Hole, when someone else discovers his ability to bring back the dead. 

 

Silver’s bringing out a bag of garbage to the back dumpster when there’s a shout from somewhere high above.  Then there’s a man falling in front of him, too fast for Silver to do more than take a step back. 

 

He hits the metal lid with a sickening thud, his neck lolling, and then he rolls off on top of Silver.  As soon as the man touches him, he comes back to life, and he looks stupefied to how he survived that fall. 

 

He begins to run away, but Silver doesn’t think twice, claps a hand on the back of his neck.

 

The man falls dead to the ground, as Silver shudders. He  glances up, and is met with another stunned look from the roof. 

 

Billy Bones was a private investigator, and he had been chasing the man that had just died on top of the roof. What he saw that day, it had chained his destiny to John’s, for better and for worse. 

 

Silver explains his abilities over a complimentary slice of pumpkin pie that day. “I’ve had it for as long as I’ve known,” Silver says, choosing to leave out his own personal messy history and the likely traumatic effect that it’s had on him. “I’ve figured out I have a minute before someone else dies. Pie?” 

 

Billy stares at him over his plate. “You’re saying you could have a minute with any dead person in the world.”

 

“Well, yeah,” Silver says. “But I don’t purposefully seek out dead people. Seems bad for my continued mental health.”

 

“You’re missing a lucrative opportunity,” Billy decides. Their business relationship starts as he slides his plate for another slice of that pumpkin pie. Silver obliges, wondering what his life has come to.

 

Billy has all sorts of connections with the detectives in the city, so he gleans information about unsolved homicides with high reward payments. Silver resists the idea at first, as extended usage of his abilities just seemed too risky, and it’s not like it could be easily explained without firsthand evidence like Billy had been treated to. 

 

He had humored Billy for a few weeks, going to the morgue with him, taking the minute to ask the deceased who had killed them, then zapping them back. No harm, no foul, and he figures he can use whatever cash Billy throws his way to give Max a bonus. He himself starts to squirrel away some of the money upstairs - not that he was expecting trouble, not when there was quite literally a dead trail to whatever they were doing, but - just in case. 

 

But then the checks had started rolling in, cases that Billy had sought out for them, people who were willing to pay far more than he would have guessed for some last answers. Billy concocted some story on how they got the information, procuring false evidence, and Silver did what he was able to do. And what could Silver say to that many zero’s- being a baker was certainly not as profitable as he could have hoped, and with that sort of money, he could soon plan for anything he could ever want. Billy and Silver split the profits fifty-fifty, and no one was the wiser to their scheme. 

 

It’s not like he doesn’t use his powers for other things, anyways. It turns out that it’s a lot more affordable for the bakery to buy rotting, old fruit when he can just zap it better. Silver just has to be careful not to eat any of his own pies, and that’s a sacrifice he can stand if it means keeping the place afloat. 

 

Max doesn’t know. He keeps the bad fruit hidden, and he's yet to be in a situation with a dead body with her, after all. He’s not sure if it just hasn’t come up, or if he would ever be able to find the words to explain it. People tended to get weird over the morality of bringing people back from the dead, and Silver is reasonably certain that keeping that kind of secret was a step too far for any reasonable employee contract, let alone keeping a friendship going with that sort of reveal. Max almost certainly knows he's hiding something, but he figures that he'll just come up with some story of how he's having an ill-fated affair with Billy or something if she calls him out on anything. 

 

Now, after Silver checks on the baking pies in the oven, he goes out to the front where Max is busy serving pie. She nods to the booths that line the opposite wall, underneath the window. “Key lime to the blonde with the red parka, and double chocolate to the happy couple at the end,” she says, motioning with a flick of her dark hair. 

 

Silver brings the plates over to the booths, then leans on the counter opposite of Max, who’s now wiping them down. In the background, the television is turned on, some news anchor looking especially serious. “Can you close tonight?” he asks. “I’ve got- ah- a meeting of sorts.”

 

Max slants an unimpressed look. “Just because I’ll say yes doesn’t mean you get to keep pulling that trick on me. Who’s the meeting with?”

 

“Billy,” Silver says easily. “He’s looking over the books for me.” Billy was, in fact, coming to pick him up to go to the morgue. There had been some sort of drowning victim who died under suspicious circumstances, and a hefty reward waiting for information on those circumstances. 

 

“Billy,” Max repeats. “Billy doesn’t strike me as the book-keeping type.”

 

“It’s those biceps that trick you. He’s actually got quite a brain, and the deltoid muscles to boot." Silver glances towards the kitchen. "Can I get you a slice of pie? Cherry? Your favorite.”

 

She points a red-painted fingernail at him. “You do not get to bribe me with pie, John Silver-” but before she can press further, Silver glances past her, his attention caught on the screen behind them.

 

Max twists to look over as well. “What is it?” 

 

Silver reaches for the remote, turning up the volume so that he can hear. “I just thought I heard something-” he starts, stopping when the news anchor speaks again. 

 

“The unnamed man was found drowned off the eastern coast. Investigators are still looking for possible motives, but it’s clear that foul play was at hand-” and then a picture flashing across the screen.

 

Even though it’s been over twenty years since Silver has seen that face, he knows who it is instantly. The brow is more furrowed, and he has a beard, but that shock of red hair, Silver could place anywhere. 

 

“James,” he exhales. Something in his chest twists painfully. It’s like he’s a boy again in that moment, and he can’t breathe, let alone modulate his features, even as Max sends a concerned look in his direction. 

 

 

•••

 

 

James Flint was thirty-one years, thirty-five weeks, ten days and twenty-eight minutes old when he died. 

 

The official cause of his death had been drowning, but when he entered the chilly water that morning, he had been rendered unconscious from the sharp pain of a bullet wound in his shoulder. Hence the “suspicious circumstances” that the district attorney didn’t seem keen on sharing with the public. 

 

“He probably didn’t feel a thing,” the medical examiner tells Silver, mistaking his wince for some sympathy.

 

Which did bring him the smallest amount of comfort, although the wince was in response to Billy elbowing him in the side, as Silver can’t take his eyes off of James Flint’s drawn face, looking stern even in death. 

 

He looks pale, lying on the slab in the morgue, that red hair piled underneath his head. He looks heartbreakingly similar to the fifteen-year-old boy Silver had last known, even with the lines in his brow and the obvious lack of life in his face. If it wasn’t for the pallor of his flesh, the dark dried blood of a bullet hole in his shoulder, Silver would think he was sleeping. 

 

He’s going to need a stiff drink or ten after this. He hopes Max saved that brandy. 

  
  
“Can we get a copy of the autopsy report?” He can hear Billy ask, sounding somewhat distant.

 

“I haven’t done an autopsy yet, but I can pull up the detective’s report from when they found him,” the examiner offers, turning to go back into the main office.

 

Billy pulls his elbow, though, even when Silver glares at him. “I know you might have known him, but now isn’t the time for some reunion scene,” Billy hisses into his ear. “We need to know who got him, collect that fifty grand on the table.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, fifty grand, got it,” Silver repeats back carelessly, still looking at James’s face. “No reunion.” 

 

“ _Fifty grand,_ ” Billy repeats, letting go of his elbow and following the examiner out of the room.

 

That's usually how it works- Billy distracts, does his con so that Silver has enough time to work his magic (quite literally). Silver swallows, looking down at the body.

 

 

•••

 

 

The funeral for John’s mother and James’s grandfather is at the same cemetery. They’re at the same time, however, so as much as John longs to stand beside his friend in that moment, he’s forced to watch as people toss soil and flowers on top of his mother’s coffin, as James does the same just across the road. 

  
After he’s let the dirt filter through his fingertips onto the pale surface of the coffin, John turns to see James looking right at him. James looks away when John meets his eyes.

 

On the other side of the cemetery, the mourners for James’s grandfather are leaving, filtering away. James looks stiff and uncomfortable, nodding as a few people go up to him. His eyes are red, and his posture is taut beneath the ill-fitting gray suit that someone made him wear. 

 

The priest claps John on the shoulder in an awkward show of sympathy. John ducks his head, but then there are footsteps, and he can feel the warmth from James’s arm beside his from where he walked over. He’s struck with the urge to hold the other boy’s hand, to assure himself that he’s not another ghost beside him. 

 

They don’t look at each other for a seemingly long time. James breaks the silence first. “I’m leaving,” he says, and John has to blink hard, his fingers clenching into a fist. “They’re sending me to boarding school, as per his will.” 

 

“That’s shit,” John says, and James makes a small sound in reply. “They’re sending me to live with some relatives. I think. I didn’t really listen.” 

 

“We can write to each other,” James suddenly says. “I don’t have an address yet, but we’ll figure it out.” 

 

John turns to face him then. “Yeah,” he repeats, and he feels exhausted. A small part of him knew even then that there were some things that could not be controlled in this life. “We can.”

 

James’s eyes are strange, almost searching as he watches John. “You’re my best friend,” he says then, “I’ll miss you.” 

 

John means to say _I miss you too_ , but somehow the words can’t quite come out. He looks at James and thinks to himself, _I feel safe with him._

 

He doesn’t even fully recognize the emotions that are brewing in him, not at his age. With James leaving, he realizes that his home is leaving too, in that moment, the only person left in this world- the other in the ground in front of them now- whom he trusts.

 

John doesn’t think twice when he takes the smallest of steps forward and presses a soft kiss to the corner of James’s mouth. He can’t say it, but it feels right, and so he does it. 

 

James inhales quickly, and his eyes are round when John pulls back. He doesn’t move, though, and John takes the chance- perhaps his only chance- to touch his hand, then. His hand is warm under the soft touch of his fingertips. 

 

“I’m going to miss you,” John says.

 

Then he’s watching James get into the car. He can see him through the back window, even as the car shifts gears and moves down the hill.

 

He stares after the car until it disappears from sight. Already, the sun is setting behind him, and if he squints as he gets into someone else’s car, he blames it on the fading light. 

 

 

•••

 

 

“Hello, James,” Silver tells the too-still body quietly. “It’s been a long time.”

 

It’s not like he’s expecting an answer, not yet, but he lets out another shuddering breath and raises his hand. 

 

It seems strange to touch him on the arm- so impersonal, all considering. But on the lips seems weirdly forward, so Silver settles on the cheek, just underneath a faint freckle he can still make out. 

 

He lifts his finger, moves it closer to the skin. He takes a deep breath and touches the skin there ever so gently. 

 

Silver barely catches the sight of green eyes flickering open before there’s a hand bunching in his shirt, grabbing him and slamming his head into the morgue slab. 

 

“Ow- _fuck!”_ Silver swears, clutching his head. 

 

The source of his pain swings his legs down from the table, gathering the sheet around his waist in a dignified manner. “Who are you, and where am I?” James Flint demands, his voice low but commanding. He scoops up a scalpel from the side table when Silver doesn’t immediately answer, brandishing it with the frightening precision of someone who is not afraid to use such sharp blades for injury. 

 

Somewhere in Silver’s mind, he finds the scene hysterical, if it wasn’t for that he was currently being threatened by a dead man. 

 

Silver raises his hands. “James-” and the man’s eyes narrow. “-right. Do you remember growing up in Coeur d'Coeurs? You had a friend at school, named-” 

 

“John,” James- _no, Flint_ , Silver thinks to himself, as he can’t quite reconcile his memory of the boy with the angry, partially naked man in front of him now- says, but he doesn’t put down the scalpel. “I remember you.”  


 

Silver puts down his hands. “Can you not threaten me with that?” he requests, jerking his chin at the blade. 

 

Flint narrows his eyes but sets it down.  “What am I doing here?” But then his eyes are already taking in the morgue, the sheet around him, the unhealed bullet hole in his shoulder, and his jaw slackens slightly as he looks up at Silver. “Christ. Did I die?” 

 

“You came up with that remarkably quickly,” Silver says, and raises his hands quickly once more when Flint levels him with a mean glare. “All right! You did die. And you only have-” he checks his watch- “Forty seconds left, so would you mind terribly telling me who killed you?”

 

Flint exhales, the sound whistling through his nose, and considering he’s supposed to be dead, that still-familiar flush is splayed all over his chest in a remarkable shade of pink. “I don’t know.” 

 

“What do you mean- _you don’t know who shot you?”_

 

“I have a lot of people who don’t like me, all right?” Flint snaps. “I was on the boat, waiting for the drop, and then I was here. This isn’t exactly familiar territory, all right?” 

 

_The drop?_ Pieces of his story are starting to connect in Silver’s brain. He knew that being shot and dumped overboard wasn’t a likely death for an innocent person, but the thought that Flint- James- was now involved in some life of crime was quite a thought to consider. 

 

Silver breathes in, breathes out. “Okay.” 

 

“So _you,_ ” Flint says, now looking at him with a critical eye. “You bring people back from the dead now?”  


 

“Found that out the hard way, you know how it is,” Silver says with a shrug. He’s not sure why, but then he adds, “You were my first kiss, you know.” 

 

Flint stares at him. Silver’s fully prepared to deflect a scalpel when he gives a low chuckle, a sound that makes something warm blooms in Silver’s chest, despite the circumstances “You were mine, too,” he reveals. “I’m surprised you recognize me, after- after everything.” 

 

“Twenty years, but you still have that hair,” Silver fondly recalls, and then hefrowns. “Shit. You have seventeen seconds.”

  
“Is that how it works?” Flint asks, and Silver watches his hands carefully, as he’s still holding the scalpel.

 

Some people react badly to that part. They either freak out, and Silver has to clamber after them lest they run screaming away- or they clam up, unable to process what’s happening. Silver feels bad for them when that happens.

 

“Yes,” Silver says. “I can only do it for a minute, otherwise, ah, someone else dies.” 

 

Flint, for his part, just looks resigned, closing his eyes briefly. “All right.” 

 

“Do you have any final wishes?” Silver asks, then. “Now would be the time to speak up.”

 

Flint lets out another chuckle, but this one is definitely more pained, and Silver’s chest clenches once more. His eyes open. “Make sure I’m buried by Thomas and Miranda.”  


 

“Done,” Silver says, and he takes a step to the side so that he can move around the table. Flint’s green eyes are fixed on him. “I’m sorry that you died,” he says then, because he finds that these moments make him honest. “I would’ve liked to have met you again.” 

 

Flint looks at him. “First and last kiss, then?” he asks with a wry twist to his mouth. 

 

“Yeah,” Silver replies softly, feeling something in his gut clench at the thought. “Like bookends.”

 

Flint’s taller than him now, and he holds still when Silver comes close. From this proximity, Silver can feel the warmth coming off from his skin, as Flint tilts his head down to look at Silver in the eye before his own flutter shut. 

 

They get close, and Silver just needs to close the gap between them, but then he finds himself rooted, stuck to the floor. He thinks of sunsets and the warm scent of flour, of summer days outside. 

 

Flint’s eyes open once more. “John?” 

 

His given name, one that no one calls him by anymore, makes something loose fall from his chest.

 

“I-” Silver says, and then he takes a step back. “I can’t.” 

 

Flint watches him step back with an unreadable expression. “If it’s the kiss-”

 

“No, it’s not that. You shouldn’t have to die again,” Silver tells him, determined, even more so when Flint’s eyes widen. “I’m not going to do that.” 

 

Silver glances at his watch, just as the second hand hits one minute. “But just this time, I think it’s worth it.” He darts a look at the door. “Listen to me - "

 

 

•••

 

  
  
Billy is waiting for him outside. “All good?” he asks, looking at Silver with a critical eye, looking at him up and down as though he expected Silver to emerge covered in blood.

 

“Yeah,” Silver says, still slightly breathless. “We’re good.”  


 

“So?” Billy prompts, and rolls his eyes when Silver just stares at him. “Who killed him?” 

 

“Oh, he didn’t know,” Silver says, with a touch too much air in his voice. “I think I’m gonna hang back, maybe accompany the body to the funeral home, bake a sympathetic pie-” 

 

_“Silver_ ,” Billy says. “What do you mean, he didn't know?” 

 

“ - you know, I never really liked triple berry. Probably associate it with my mother’s death or something. You go on ahead, I’ll catch up-” 

 

“Silver, if I go into that back room, is there going to be a previously dead, now alive body waiting for me?” Billy asks, because one of the man’s claims to fame was his ability to see through any and all bullshit, including Silver’s. 

 

Silver tries, “No?”  


 

Billy pushes by him, opening the door even as Silver follows him helplessly. They open the doors, and there’s nothing there. There's no body lying on the slab where there _definitely should be a body_. 

 

“What can I say,” Silver says, as Billy turns an angry face to him. “It made poetic sense?”

 

 

•••

 

 

Flint, as it turns out, had indeed played dead as Silver had suggested. Only what either of them failed to take into account was the morgue assistant, who had slid Flint’s very much alive body into the coffin, ready to be transported to the funeral home. In the time that it took Silver to collect himself and lie to Billy, Flint had already been put in the back of a hearse and was leaving the medical examiner’s office. 

 

When Silver and Billy drove down the winding road that led to the funeral home, they barely went half a mile before they saw the hearse on the side of the road. 

 

The car itself was crumpled towards the front from where it had struck an old willow tree, the engine now on fire. Most notably, one James Flint was sitting on the back bumper as they pulled up behind the flaming car. 

 

“Silver, why is the dead man still alive?” Billy asks, his tone too calm. 

 

Silver stares out the front window, as Flint shifts his weight from where he’s leaning against the car. “I might have, um, let him stay.” 

 

“If I go back,” Billy says, staring out the window as well, “Am I going to find a dead medical examiner in the building?”

 

  
“Well, it’s a random proximity thing, so, most likely yes.”

 

Billy shoots him a wounded look. “ _I was in proximity_ ,” he hisses, and they get out of the car. 

 

“The driver didn’t take it well when I got out of the box,” Flint offers as an explanation. He’s wearing the scrubs that Silver had tossed at him before. “He’s still alive, though.”

 

Billy checks the unconscious man strewn on the pavement for a pulse anyway, and shoots Silver a dark look. “This is your fault.” 

 

“What we’re going to do,” Flint says decisively, and now both Silver and Billy look at him, “is find whoever shot me.” 

 

“Right,” Silver slowly says, staring at the man who has taken to living again with more ease than he really expected. “And turn him in?” 

 

“For the reward money,” Billy realizes in the same moment. 

  
  
Flint studies them, as though the idea is just coming to fruition. “All right.”

 

“What, were you just going to kill him instead- oh,” Silver realizes. “You just wanted to kill him.”

 

“I’m a simple man,” Flint says dryly. “First, I need proper pants.” 

 

“Jesus Christ,” Billy utters. “Who is this man?”

 

  


•••

 

 

They somehow make it back to the Pie Hole before anyone can chase them down, or notice that a man whose photo has been in the news is now suddenly alive and in the backseat of Billy’s car, wearing teal scrubs. 

 

Silver sneaks Flint up the staircase while Billy distracts Max. She tries to crane her head around him to see who Silver is bringing up, but Billy’s massive enough that she doesn’t get the chance to see that it’s the dead man from the television following Silver up those stairs. 

 

Silver gets to his apartment and locks the door behind them. He’s careful not to brush into Flint, keeping a large amount of space between them. “This is my place,” Silver says with a dismissive brush of his hand. “Make yourself at home.” 

 

“You own that bakery downstairs?” Flint asks, looking at some of the photos on the wall. They’re of Silver and Max, mostly, but also a few of Billy popping up in there, looking irritated as usual. 

 

“I do. Max helps me run it,” he replies, setting down his keys. He goes into his bedroom, takes out a tee-shirt, boxers and jeans that might fit Flint. “Here, take these,” Silver says, emerging back to toss the clothes at him.

 

While Flint changes out of the scrubs, Silver gets a beer out of the fridge. He takes a slow drink and sets it down when Flint comes out, settling on the lone green couch that’s pushed up against the wall. 

 

“That woman- Max? She’s your wife?” Flint asks, only looking mildly irritated when Silver bursts out laughing. 

 

“Ha! No. Max is my good, entirely platonic friend.” The man nods. “You’re not married, are you? Kids?” He didn’t think to ask about who might be grieving Flint, who might wonder where his body disappeared to. 

 

“No,” Flint says, and his expression grows tight for a moment, hiding whatever he doesn’t want to show on his face from Silver. “I’m not married.” 

 

Silver wonders what has happened over twenty years. He takes a long drag of his beer instead of questioning Flint at first, leaning his elbows on the kitchen island. “How much do you remember? Of Coeur d'Coeurs, I mean.” 

 

Flint splays his hands open over his knees, looking down at them. _“_ I remember your mother making pies. Whenever I stayed over, she would make triple berry, right?” 

 

“Yeah,” Silver says, a pleasant wave of surprise washing over him. “She liked you a lot.” He finishes his beer.  


 

“I remember the funeral,” Flint continues. “And then I went to boarding school.”

 

Silver toys with the label on his beer bottle. “I didn’t keep you around because of one tiny kiss back when we were kids, you know,” he says, because he has to get that out, even if it’s not entirely true. “You were my best friend, you deserved a second chance.”

 

Flint studies him, and even though they’re far apart, Silver can see the strange glint in his eyes. “What if I’m not a good person anymore? What if I didn’t deserve this chance?” 

 

“I suppose I’ll just take that risk,” Silver replies when he’s not sure quite what to say. Flint frowns, and it looks like he’s about to say something, when Silver says suddenly, “Tell me about your life. Boarding school, what happened next?”

 

Flint continues to stare at him, and Silver is preparing for him to clam up, but the man lets out a shaky exhale. “I went to boarding school. Got into the military program, went into the Navy as soon as I graduated.” 

 

_The Navy? ‘“_ Why?” 

 

“I wanted to see the world, I suppose,” Flint says with a wry twist to his mouth. “From Coeur d'Coeurs to boarding school, they kept me locked away. With the Navy, I could travel the world.” 

 

He pauses, then, and it’s pain that flits across his expression, and Silver waits. “I fell in love. With someone I shouldn’t have, but I did. We were in love.”

 

“Thomas or Miranda?” Silver asks quietly, remembering the names Flint had told him earlier. Flint looks up sharply, but then something wistful comes to his features.

 

“Thomas and Miranda,” Flint corrects, and Silver’s eyes widen. “He was the son of a powerful ambassador, and she was his wife. I met her during one of my shore leaves. She was beautiful, not only physically, but she lived fully. She could bring light to any room, and I fell in love with her quickly.

 

“Then she introduced me to Thomas, and I fell in love with him the moment I saw him. He-” and something catches in Flint’s throat, as Silver watches him recall the memory of the man he loved, the emotions raw on his face, “He was everything to me.”

 

“It was unorthodox, I realize in case you’re struggling with the concept, but we were happy.”

 

Flint pauses before starting again. “Thomas’s father, Alfred Hamilton, he was a powerful man. He was all about his image, and what we had, he didn’t understand, nor did he care to. He threatened Thomas, told him that he would cut him off if he kept on seeing me. But Thomas refused, even when his father took the money from his pockets, took the house, his name.”

 

He stops. It’s not clear if Flint is about to continue, with the way he’s avoiding looking at Silver. He’s good at reading people, and in many ways, Flint isn’t special in this category. He’s clearly not used to sharing such details about his past, but somehow he’s thought to put Silver in this special category. Notable, because even though Silver has literally given him his life back, he’s sure that nothing could compel James Flint to do something he didn’t want to go. Silver can recognize that this- whatever it is between them- is rare for Flint. Rare for him, too, and he’s surprised at himself at the intensity of his need to know what has shaped this man in front of him. s

 

Flint is still studying the ground in front of him. Silver says quietly, “Will you tell me what happened next?” A careful request, as he doesn’t want to risk Flint bolting. 

 

“There was a fire one night,” Flint grits out as if the words are physically painful. “A few years ago. I wasn’t there when it happened. They said it was electrical but I knew it wasn’t. It was his father, who couldn’t stand that his son had found happiness and was willing to let the world know that he had it.” 

 

“Christ,” Silver utters when it’s not clear what else to say. "And...  you left?" 

 

“After that, I couldn’t stay in the Navy, pretending like nothing had happened,” Flint says, his jaw still clenched. “You said you wanted to know about my life. It’s not all pretty, especially not recently.” 

 

“You can tell me,” Silver says to him, steadily watching Flint’s hands clench and relax in increments. “I want to know.” 

 

Flint takes another breath. “After the Navy, I wanted to bring those responsible to justice. That put me in league with some bad people. But I didn’t care. I would do it again. I killed Alfred Hamilton,” he reveals then, and Silver sucks in a breath. “I would do it again, too.” 

 

They sit in silence, then, as Silver processes this. “I’m sorry,” he says then. 

 

“You’re sorry?” Flint echoes, looking somewhere between irritated and stunned. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I told you-” 

 

“Why did you tell me, then?” Silver counters, cutting him off. “You don’t owe me your life story, and you’re deluding yourself if you think that I’ve somehow worked it out of you.” 

 

Something sad is in Flint’s eyes now, even though he still looks irritated. “I suppose that I’ve never told anyone. You’re the only person in this world who knew me before these tragedies.” He meets his eye, then. “Nothing about this is normal.”

 

“Yeah, well, I bring people back to life, so my sense of normal’s pretty skewed,” Silver says. “The people you killed, they deserved it, you think?”  


 

‘Undoubtably.” 

 

“Well then, as long as you don’t start dragging bodies into my kitchen, I think we’ll be good.” Silver runs a hand over his elbow. "I'm not sure there's enough room in the freezer, anyways." 

 

Flint stands up, suddenly, and he’s walking to the kitchen island, keeping it between them. “You’re not afraid of me,” he says, "Are you?" 

 

“Should I be?” 

 

There’s a glazed look coming across Flint’s eyes, as though he’s remembering something, but then his vision sharpens and his eyes fix on Silver. “I’m not some project of yours. Just because we knew each other at one point-”  


 

“Nor do I expect you to be,” Silver tells him. “You can’t just start waltzing down the street, though. People think you're dead.” 

 

“I figured.” He pauses. “I need to tell Anne and Rackham.”

 

Silver’s eyebrows fly up. “Who?”

 

“They’re as close as a family as I have,” Flint says. “They used to run jobs with me. They were expecting me back when I went out on the boat. Besides, they’re going to wonder where my body went.” 

 

“You can’t tell them,” Silver says, even when Flint’s eyes narrow. “People don’t take too well to seeing their loved ones rise from the dead. Raises a lot of uncomfortable questions.”  


 

“I need to tell them,” Flint insists. “It’s not like they talk to anyone else that much, they barely leave the house.” There’s a glint in his eye, and Silver remembers that even though he can’t touch him, it’s possible that Flint will know how to escape anyways. There’s a strange tension building between them- perhaps because this man, a paradox in that Silver knows his darkest history, but is also a stranger to him- but in that moment, Silver surprises himself yet again with the sudden urge to grab Flint by his shirt and kiss him. 

 

Not that he can, though. He pushes away the thought, as Flint turns to look at the beer bottle. 

 

“All right,” Silver acquiesces after a long moment, and Flint relaxes minutely, “You’ll get to tell them. But not now,” he adds. “You’re still all over the news. And for your body, well, Billy’s heading back tomorrow to bribe the morgue assistant. He’ll weight the box, tell them it’s a closed casket deal.” 

 

“They’re going to want to see the body anyways,” Flint says, and he snorts. “Anne always said that she wouldn’t believe I was dead until she saw my corpse.” 

 

“And that’s a problem we’ll fix tomorrow,” Silver yawns. “I’m exhausted, and I need to get up early for tomorrow’s shift. You take the bed, I’ll take the couch.” 

 

Flint nods, shortly. “Thank you,” he says, and it seems sincere. 

 

They separate. Although it’s true that he’s exhausted, Silver tosses and turns for several hours, lying on the old couch. 

 

He’d be lying to himself if he never thought about James, all these years. Perhaps it was the combination of recalling that brief time that they were friends through the rosy glasses of nostalgia, that brief kiss, a moment of innocence among grief before they changed into the men they are now. Maybe it’s the fact that fate has seen fit to bring them together under such bizarre circumstances. 

 

Either way, as he drifts asleep, his hand finds its way to the wall that separates the living room from the bedroom. He doesn’t know it, but on the other side of the wall, Flint eventually falls asleep his hand pressed up on the wall too, their palms lined up even through the layers of sheetrock and peeling wallpaper.

 

 

•••

 

 

Silver dreams of his mother, her dark hair sticking to the base of her neck, her eyes wide and confused. 

 

Then she’s dying in front of him again- but then Mr. Flint is also there. Only he’s bleeding out on the carpet in front of him, and as Silver watches in horror, James is standing right in front of him right a look of absolute betrayal. 

 

“You did this,” young James whispers, and although he knows it’s just a dream, Silver feels the urge to vomit, the hot scent of blood flooding his nostrils. 

 

He tries to move, but the blood is sticking to the bare soles of his feet, sinking into his skin like fangs. Then an older James- Flint- is standing there right in front of him, with that strange look in his eyes. Flint leans in to kisses him, all teeth and blood, and when Silver tries to reach for him, he too dissolves into a pool of blood at his feet. 

 

Silver wakes with a start, sweaty and hands tight at his sides. He stares at the ceiling, and he’s unable to fall back asleep.

 

 

•••

 

 

When the sun peeks over the horizon, light beginning to glance through the windowpane, Silver gets up. He glances into his bedroom, where Flint is curled up in his bed, still fast asleep. 

 

He makes his way down to the bakery and opens up by himself. Max will be coming in later, but he’s able to serve the morning rush by himself.

 

Once there’s a break, Silver sees Billy in one of the booths by the window. The man glances up at him when he brings two large mugs of coffee to them. “We need to talk,” Billy says, looking stern even as he takes a long sip of coffee. 

 

“If it’s about the lemon meringue, I’m afraid we’re out,” Silver says. 

 

Billy points at him, already looking unhappy. “This is not a time for joking. We just kidnapped a dead man.” 

 

“Technically, he’s alive.” 

 

“I just read his file that my friend at the DA sent me. He’s not some sweet fresh family man from the suburbs, he’s a _felon_ -”  


 

“Who’s a felon?” Max asks, sliding into the booth seat next to Silver from where she just walked in. “Tell me his name.” 

 

Silver glances at Billy, then her. “No one.”

 

“Silver, knowing your terrible taste in men and women,” the woman demands, “If you’re seeing a felon, I am the one who you talk to. My ex-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Eleanor and the crime family, we’ve heard it before,” Billy says dismissively, only looking slightly perturbed when Max narrows her eyes at him, probably for interrupting her. “Shouldn’t you be working?” 

 

Max steals Billy’s cup of coffee, taking a defiant sip. “I was just stopping off,” she says haughtily, and then turns to look at Silver. “You will tell me, _cherie,_ all about this man whom you snuck upstairs last night.” 

 

She slides out of the booth and walks away to the counter. Both Silver and Billy watch her go. “She took my cup,” Billy says. 

 

“I’ll get you another one,” Silver starts to say, but then there’s another figure who slides into the booth right next to Billy.

 

“I thought about who might have shot me, and I have some ideas,” Flint says, even as Billy both jumps and turns a shade paler. 

  
  
“Damn it, Flint,” Silver says, “You can’t be down here _-”_

 

“It’s not like anyone is going to be looking for me here and now,” Flint says in an infuriatingly calm voice. He tilts his baseball hat- one of Silver’s, reading _Got pie?_ on the brim- down farther on his head, though. 

 

“ _Why is the dead man sitting next to me_ ,” Billy says in one rushed breath, and Flint turns to glare at him, looking ridiculous in a bright yellow tee shirt and cargo pants- clothes he must have stolen from Silver. Somewhere, Silver wonders if he slipped and hit his head, and this is some crazed concussed dream.  


 

“I realize that sitting next to him might cause you two to have to carry my dead body out of here, which would ultimately disturb everyone in here a lot more,” Flint says bitingly. “That is a situation I would like to avoid as well if it’s all the same to you.” 

 

“You said you might know who shot you,” Silver presses, trying to change the subject as Billy’s turning red now. “Who?” 

 

Flint turns to him, and in the morning light, his eyes are even more green. “At the drop-off, I was going to meet Charles Vane. If there’s anyone who hates both Vane and I at the moment, it would be Teach.” 

 

“Charles Vane- _Edward Teach?”_ Billy repeats, even when both Flint and Silver give him annoyed looks. “As in, the hitman and the drug lord, Charles Vane and Edward Teach?” 

 

“Vane does more behind the scenes work nowadays,” Flint corrects. “Teach has never gotten over the fact that Vane, his protégé, went to work with me instead. I say that we pay a visit to Charles Vane, he might have even witnessed if it was one of Teach’s men who shot me.” 

 

“You can’t just come with us to spring a visit on your friend, especially if you think he witnessed you die,” Silver reasons. “You’ll stay here, and Billy and I will go.” 

 

“You’re not going to get anywhere near Vane without me,” Flint counters. Silver thinks to himself that the man would probably rather die than give up control of a situation. Likely literally once already. “Anne and Jack will know where to find him, and they’re not going to trust either one of you.” As he says it, he shoots an especially mistrustful glance at Billy to his side. “Especially not you.” 

 

“This is madness,” Billy says somewhat faintly. “Fifty grand is nowhere near enough to tempt me into going after Edward Teach.” 

 

“Actually, it’s more like fifty million,” Flint says, and Silver splutters a bit. 

 

“Pardon me- _fifty million?_ No way is the DA going to pay anyone fifty million for information on your death.” _  
_

 

_“_ At the drop-off, I was carrying around fifty million dollars of gold in that boat. If we go after whoever shot me, we can collect the gold,” Flint says as if that’s the most reasonable part of this conversation. 

 

Silver realizes at the same time as Flint speaks, “It hasn’t been processed by the DA because it would have been all over the news by now.”

 

“Exactly,” Flint says, and then grins with all of his teeth. 

 

Silver studies him, even as Billy looks incredulously between them, a plan brewing in his head. Fifty million is a lot of money, the kind of money where Silver could run this bakery one day a week for the rest of his life and take nice, long vacations, too. 

 

“I know how we can find out where Charles Vane is,” Silversays, slowly. “It’s going to take a lot of patience, and pie deliveries.”

 

 

•••

 

 

The house is only a half hour drive outside of the city. It’s one of the old Royal Victorian style manors, but it’s painted in a 60’s revival color scheme of violet and peach and dark red, somehow both stunning and an eyesore.

 

Max stares out the passenger's side window, the box containing a peach pie in her hands. “This is the house the delivery man won’t go to?” 

 

“Something about being scared of the woman in the house,” Silver guesses, given Flint’s brief description of Anne Bonny and Jack Rackham before he had to sneak back into the upstairs apartment undetected. “She’s got a tempersupposedly.” 

 

“Remind me again why you can’t just make the delivery,” Max says then, turning to Silver with a critical eye. “Why it must be me to go to the house?” 

 

“It’s a gift pie, so they’re not expecting it, and between the two of us, they’re more likely to accept it from you,” Silver lies easily. “I’ll be right here in the car, the entire time, besides.” 

 

Max sighs, unbuckling her seatbelt. “You are lying to me, and while that might make me pause otherwise, every minute here is another minute that I could be making excellent tips.” She shoots Silver a dark look. “Does this have anything to do with the mysterious man whom I have yet to meet?” 

 

“Of course not,” Silver replies. “Now hurry up, the pie is getting cold.”

 

 

•••

 

Max leaves the car and pushes open the gate. While Silver watches from the parked car, she makes her way up the stone path, careful not to jostle the pie too much.

 

The tall door seems to loom above her, all dark wood at odds with the chipped bright paint. Max swallows, gathering her courage, and she rings the doorbell.

 

There’s no response, and she rings the doorbell again. Then, she hears a muffled sound, and then the door’s opening just a crack.

 

  
“Who the fuck are you?” A gruff voice comes through, and Max can see just a hint of red hair.

 

“I’m from the Pie Hole, and I have a delivery for-” Max cranes her head to read the label- “Anne Bonny and Jack Rackham?” 

 

The door doesn’t open anymore, nor does it slam shut. “What delivery?” 

 

“A peach pie,” Max says, trying to see who’s behind the door. “You are Anne Bonny?” 

 

The door swings open just slightly, and Max can see the woman, even though it’s very dark inside the house. She’s got a jutting jaw and long hair that falls into her eyes. Beyond all rational thought, Max takes the smallest step forward, towards her, as the woman looks at her with suspicious eyes. “Who’s it from?” 

 

“I don’t know,” Max says, and to her own surprise, she puts a foot in the door before the woman can shut it on her face. “It was an anonymous gift that was called into our bakery. May I?” 

 

The woman grunts, eyes flitting down to the carton as Max opens it. “It is just a peach pie, as you can see,” Max tells her, eyes fixed on her face. “Please, accept it.” 

 

The woman looks at her hard, then, and then the door is swinging open. She grabs the carton from Max, and sniffs the pie. Now fully in the light, Max can see that she’s taller, and her eyes are a startling shade of pale blue. The woman’s eyes flicker over Max, and Max can’t help but to preen ever so slightly under that look that she recognizes. The woman’s eyes narrow even more. 

 

“I don’t like peach. Go away,” she says, even though she’s holding the pie still, and then the door is slamming closed.

 

Max blinks. She stares at the wood of the door, before turning around and heading back to the car. 

 

Silver looks with a raised eyebrow as she climbs in, puts on her seatbelt. “Well?” 

 

“I delivered the pie,” Max says, unsure of what exactly just happened. Silver owes her. 

 

“Good,” Silver says. “We have another gift to be delivered in two days to here. If you don’t mind-” 

 

Max stares at him. “Tell them not to order another peach,” she says finally, and then they drive away, Silver humming along to the radio station and tapping on the wheel while Max stares out the window.

 

 

•••

 

 

Flint lounges, bored, on the couch in Silver’s apartment. It's only been a few hours, but he feels trapped in the confines of the apartment. He’s already looked over the space with a careful eye, trying to figure out any clue to what Silver has been doing the past twenty years.

 

It’s suspiciously clean, with very few personal effects lying around. Silver had taken his phone with him, and he didn’t seem to own any other electronics other than a small television, which Flint turned on when it seemed that his search was for naught, though.

 

He did find a small, crumpled photo of a woman he recognized as Silver’s mother in the side table in Silver’s bedroom. Flint studied it, then shut the drawer. 

 

The television program, some soap opera, ends abruptly, and he glances towards the screen. The news anchor, a harried-looking woman, looks up quickly into the camera, as the breaking news icon danced at the bottom of the screen. 

 

“We’ve just received word that Edward Teach, otherwise known as Blackbeard, has been found dead in an apparent shooting just outside of the city,” the woman says, and Flint sits up. 

 

_Shit._


	2. Peach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another, shorter update! a surprise to some, but I'm trying to get more of this churned out :)  
> (i'm working on like ten aus right now so hang tight I LOVE U ALL)
> 
> more to come soon!

Anne wakes up, and she can smell burnt bread coming from the downstairs. 

  
She rubs at her eyes for a few moments, trying to chase the feeling of sand from underneath her eyelids, before registering that Jack is no longer in bed beside her. The sheets run cold over her shins as she shifts, like water slipping over her legs. 

 

There’s more clattering coming from downstairs, so Anne swings her legs off the bed, picking up a shirt. It's Jack’s, by the look of it, and it’s only because her own shirt is nowhere to be found that she puts on the calico monstrosity before she makes her way down the creaky staircase. 

 

True to the smell, Jack is desperately waving the smoke coming from the toaster towards the recently opened window. “Fuck, shit, _fuck_ \- ah. Good morning, darling,” he says, towel still balled in his hands where he had been waving it at the plumes of smoke. “There’s been a terrible mishap with our kitchen appliances this morning.”

 

“Close the fucking window,” Anne says on instinct, squinting in the morning sunlight until Jack does so, drawing the curtains shut again as well. “What did you do?”

 

“Tried to make toast,” Jack says, nodding towards the charred pieces of bread now lyingon the counter. “They caught on fire, I’m afraid, and we’ll need to make a quick stop to the grocery store sometime today. All we have to eat is some of that pie.”

 

Said pie, which even Anne begrudgingly admitted was good, is still lying on the table. Anne goes over to it, lifting the edge of the cardboard box. She pauses, her fingers tracing the peeling label on the top. 

 

Jack looks to the box and back to her face. “You’re wondering if that woman is coming again, aren’t you?” he guesses, setting down the towel. 

 

“I’m not,” Anne says reflexively, then frowns at herself. Jack sighs. 

 

“You know, it would do you good to get out of the house. Ever since that call-” and he breaks off, but Anne’s eyes narrow anyways. 

  
  
“Shut up, Jack,” she growls, yanking her hand back.

  
“Anne," Jack says, and she knows what's coming, "You -you couldn’t even go to the funeral home. This isn’t - I know that he was like a brother to you, but we knew that it was going to happen one day, to one of us."

 

"Jack."

 

"Flint knew it too, and I know you’re hurting, darling, but to keep yourself shut away in this house-”

 

  
“Shut up, Jack,” Anne repeats, now with a dangerous, warning tone, and he lets out a loud exhale. They’re silent in a moment, Anne staring down at the tile beneath her bare feet.

 

She remembers when they moved into this house, buying the property with money from a particularly profitable heist. Flint had claimed one of the rooms upstairs for all this books and guns and shit- but had left the rest of the house for them to decorate.

 

Jack had picked out this truly hideous fake tile flooring, but of course, he hadn’t known how to install it. Neither had Charles- who didn’t even live here, but he was always hanging around and making fun of Jack-so after a few hours of messing around with the remains of an old toolbox Anne had scrounged up, they had both stormed off to the back porch to drink and moan about everything.

 

Anne had hung around though, watched when Flint had finally come downstairs. Hestudied the undone kitchen for a long moment, before picking up the tools, and he started to install the flooring himself. 

 

On that hot summer day, she had crouched down next to him on the grimy floor, and Flint had silently shown her how to put in the tile. They worked side by side without a word, sweating as they built the floor.

 

When they were done, Anne had muttered something unflattering about Jack and Charles. Flint had given her one of his rare smiles, his teeth surprisingly white and even, as he got two cold beers for them as well. Their feet had stuck to the new tiling as they drank beer in silence, Anne shredding and peeling at the bottle's label, and Flint had watched as she had stuck as many tiny pieces as she could on the discarded cap.

 

It’s a good memory, but now Anne swallows the bile that comes up in her throat. Jack had told her that the body was unrecognizable. She wonders if Flint died quick, with blood in his teeth, or whether he slowly sunk to the bottom of the water, lungs burning with the water that had flooded in before they found him.

 

That's why she isn't about to go chasing after any ridiculously gorgeous pie delivery women. They have business to attend to - finding out whoever the fuck go the slip on Flint, out of all people, on the top of the list. 

 

She feels warm lips on her forehead. “I’ll go to the store, run by the car shop too,” Jack says, breath warm on her face. She wants to reach out, tug him closer to her and never let go. “I’ll back in a few hours.”

 

Anne lets him kiss her on the forehead once more, and then she lets him go. 

 

•••

 

It’s early in the morning, and when Flint ventures out of the bedroom, already having made the bed up neatly. He had pulled on some of Silver’s less offensive clothing, finding a lightly patterned shirt and bright blue Bermuda bottoms that are only slightly too snug across his hips.

 

Silver is asleep on the couch still when Flint pads by. He’s got his arm looped over his face, dark hair no doubt getting into his mouth. A fond smile quirks Flint’s mouth before he can help it, and he watches Silver sleep for a long minute before making his way across the apartment. 

 

Flint means just to sneak down to the bakery and make coffee to bring back up, as he opens the front door, but just as he does so, the door opposite to Silver’s apartment opens as well, revealing a familiar-looking woman. 

 

They both freeze at the sight of each other. Flint tries to force away the flush that starts to climb up the back of his neck. “Hello,” he tries, his voice sounding rather rough and incriminating of uncommitted behavior. “Good morning.” 

 

“Hello,” the woman repeats back at him, and then she squints at him, putting a hand on her hip. “Do I know you?” 

 

“No,” Flint says. “I just have one of those faces. The hair doesn't help."

 

“Hmm.” They look at each other. “You’re are a friend of John’s?” 

 

“No,” Flint says again, then backtracks. “I mean, we’re friends, but- ah. I’m visiting him from out of town. Staying for the week.” 

 

“I must have seen you arrive, then,” the woman says. “I am surprised that Silver has not introduced us.” Her eyes flicker down. “You are wearing his shirt.” 

 

“Mine got dirty,” Flint says, and then he closes his mouth. The woman’s eyebrows shoot up, and she laughs, the sound pleasant enough, but Flint is definitely blushing now. 

 

Then Flint realizes where he recognizes her from. He remembers the pictures in Silver’s living room. “You’re Max,” he guesses, and the woman gives him a small, surprised smile in return. 

 

“And you are?” 

 

“James,” Flint introduces himself, and he holds out a hand. Max takes it, shaking it firmly. Her hand is cool and soft underneath his. 

 

“A pleasure. Were you on your way downstairs?” 

 

“I was just going to make a pot of coffee,” Flint says. “John doesn’t seem to have one in there.” 

 

Max actually rolls her eyes. “He knocked his own over last month, shattered it everywhere." But before Flint can crawl back into the apartment, she adds,"We will have coffee together, and I will share all the embarrassing stories I know about John,” and really, Flint can’t see a way to turn _that_ down.

 

 

•••

 

Silver wakes up to utter silence in his apartment.

 

He assumes the worse, of course, and jolts upright and off the couch. Going over to the bedroom, where the door is ajar, he can see the neatly made bed, but no Flint anywhere.

 

Silver just barely manages to pull on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt before hurtling down the stairs. He makes it down to the landing while pulling on a pair of sneakers, and he stares at the sight before him. 

 

Flint and Max are sitting beside each other in a booth, both laughing at something Max has pulled up on her phone. Well, Max is laughing, and Flint has the hint of a smirk on his face. Both are drinking coffee, and there’s a slice of day-old apple pie on the table between them, two forks propped up against it. 

 

Flint’s bare feet are also propped up on the opposite seat, and somehow, that’s what Silver focuses on as the weirdest part, as he walks over to them. 

 

Max looks over. “So this is the man you’ve been hiding away from me?” she asks, smirking slightly up at him.

 

“Yes. Well, no, not really,” Silver tries, and he makes the briefest eye contact with Flint - who, God help him, is wearing Silver's _shirt_ \- before turning back to Max. “What are you two doing?” 

 

“She’s showing me photos from your high school days,” Flint says, and Silver turns to stare at him just as Flint zooms in on an image on the screen for a moment. “Did you truly have this mullet?” 

 

“How do you even have that photo?” Silver asks weakly, and Max gives another tinkling laugh.

 

“You showed me your photo album when drunk once, so of course I took a few photos while I could,” she teases, then slides out of the booth. “Come, sit with us. I will bring you coffee.”

 

Silver watches her head over to the counter, waits until Max is an appropriate distance away before turning back and hissing, “You weren’t supposed to leave the apartment!”

  
Flint raises a neat eyebrow. “I wasn’t supposed to die and come back to life either, so I figured, why not?” he replies smoothly, taking a long sip of his coffee.

 

“God help us all, you’ve got a sense of humor after all,” Silver says, staring at the other man’s freckled feet until Flint realizes. He pulls them down so that Silver can safely slide into the booth on the opposite side.

 

They sit in silence until Silver gives in. “What did you tell her?” 

 

“I’m visiting you from out of town. I’m between consulting jobs, so I’m staying with you for a few weeks,” Flint says easily from over the rim of his mug. 

 

He continues to look at Silver though, enough so that he says, "What?" 

 

“Did you really have a pierced eyebrow?" Flint asks, and Silver is about to say something rather rude in response when Max comes back. 

 

She puts a mug down in front of Silver, who accepts it gratefully, not caring when he burns his mouth a little on the first sip. “Flint here was telling me that the two of you have not seen each other for many years,” Max says, sitting down beside Flint until their shoulders are pressed together. Silver is surprised by the intense wave of jealousy that flares up at the sight, that he can't do the same. He wonders if Flint runs warm or cold, if the muscle in his shoulder flexes whenever he picks up a cup -  

 

He tamps down such thoughts quickly, taking another long gulp of hot coffee to distract himself. Now is  _absolutely not_ the time to be thinking about things that he literally cannot touch. 

 

“That’s right,” Flint says, fixing Silver with a strange look until he turns back to Max and his brow relaxes. “I did not expect to see John, but it seems as though the universe had different ideas.” 

 

Silver can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face at that, and when Flint catches his eye, he can see Flint’s mouth begin to quirk up as well. 

 

He barely registers Max looking between the two of them, before muttering something exasperated and fond at once in French under her breath. They drink coffee, the three of them pressed together in the booth.

 

If Silver pictures himself in Max’s seat right then, draping his arm casually over Flint’s shoulders to toy with the small curls of hair at the base of his neck, well, then, no one has to know.

 

If Flint pictures himself next to Silver, pressing their knees together underneath the table, linking their hands together as they drink coffee, well, ten, no one has to know as well.

 

•••

 

Eventually, Max excuses herself just before they have to open up the bakery, but Silver stays seated, even though he needs to get started on some of the pie preparation. Flint glances at Max’s departing back, then looks back at Silver, waiting for him to speak. 

 

Waiting for the fallout, no doubt, but Silver needs to say what comes next. 

 

He does consider his words before saying anything, trying not to prevent Max from overhearing what could no doubt boil over into an argument. “I understand,” Silver says, “That it might be tough to be in this situation, for you. But you can't just be wandering around wherever you want." 

 

He can tell it’s the wrong thing to say when Flint’s eyes harden. Instead of looking the easy-going, old-friend-perhaps-old-flame that Max had seen, he looks every bit the man the thick folder that Billy had procured had described. “'Tough' doesn’t begin to cover this situation,” Flint tells him, his jaw twitching slightly. It seems as though many things have changed since they were just two boys, Flint still has a bit of a temper. "I'm not going to stay some prisoner just because you want me to." 

 

That small, selfish part of Silver, the one that rears up at the most inopportune times, wonders how he can dig his fingers into this, see just how far he can prod. But he doesn't particularly want to explain to Max how he got his "friend" to start screaming at him in the middle of a conversation, so he fights the urge. 

 

“She could have recognized you,” Silver tells him. “Then she goes to the police, at best- and they try to figure out how James Flint is alive still. Worse yet, she tells the wrong person, and Teach’s men figure out that somehow, a bullet and a large body of water wasn’t enough to kill you.” 

 

Flint’s hand clenches on his coffee mug as Silver continues, “I am trying to _fix_ this solution, even though it’s been damn impossible to find Vane even with Billy’s help. Whoever killed Teach, whoever has that gold, we will find them, and I need you to understand this because I might be one of the few people out there who doesn't want you _dead_.”

 

“Dead again, you mean."

 

_“_ I need you to trust me,” Silver tells him curtly. “We will find whoever the fuck shot you, the gold - all right?"

 

Flint is silent for a few moments. Silver takes in a deep breath, holding it in preparation for what's coming. 

 

“The first thought I had, once I was suddenly waking up in that morgue,” Flint says then, and his tone is far softer then he would have expected given the tightness in his shoulders, and Silver exhales in surprise at the change, “Was somehow, the universe has played another cruel trick on me. That it took Thomas from me, took Miranda from me, and then it couldn’t have the decency to also take me to them."

 

Now it’s Silver’s turn to stay quiet, as Flint’s eyes are focused on the cup in his hands. “You’re asking me to trust you, like how I trusted the world for some measure of happiness. Like how I trusted _fucking Peter_ to keep Alfred away from them, to keep them safe while I was gone. Like how Thomas told me-” and Flint breaks off, suddenly, his face contorting. 

 

Silver desperately wishes he could take Flint’s hand in his in this moment, as the other man’s shoulders shake slightly. Flint’s head is bowed, but as Silver watches, seeing his eyes slowly reopen and focus on Silver now. Under his gaze, Silver feels stripped to the bone. 

 

“The only reason I’m not making you touch me again in this moment, to send me back to- wherever, in hopes that I’ll see them again,” Flint says then, his voice sounding raw, “Is because that gold could do a lot of good. If someone has that gold, they could use it for more evil in this world, and there is far too much darkness for my only contribution to be to add to it. I can’t have that, I just _can’t_ , so until then, I don’t have much of a choice.”

 

“When this is over,” Silver says, realizing, “You want me to touch you?” 

 

Flint’s mouth twists. “We’ll have that kiss after all,” he says, and then he’s sliding out of the booth again, his bare feet making quiet slapping noises on the ground as he walks back to the stairs leading to the apartments. 

 

Max comes out, then, glancing at the stairs where Flint had disappeared to. “Not even time can heal all wounds, it seems,” she says, then catches whatever look is still frozen on Silver’s expression. “I can handle opening if you'd like.” 

 

Silver shakes himself, glances at the box already out on the counter. “No, I need to clear my head, and he needs to get away from me, it seems,” he says. “Can you deliver that pie again?” 

 

“Am I to go to that house, then?” Max asks. 

 

“I put a boysenberry in this time,” Silver tells her with an apologetic look. “Please?” 

 

“Only because there seems to be trouble in paradise,” Max says, fixing him with a look before moving as if to leave.

 

“Max?” When she turns back, he asks, ”Am I really that much of an asshole?”

 

“John Silver, I believe your problem, and your gift for that matter, is that you care too much,” Max says rather cryptically, and out of everything, she kisses his cheek before departing. 

 

Silver lets himself slump into his seat. He needs to get up, to flip the sign to open on the front, but he finds himself unable to move right then, still staring at the now-empty booth across from him.

 

 

•••

 

 

There’s a knock on the door, and Anne startled from where she was lying down on the couch, clutching a glass of whiskey still cold underneath her fingers. 

 

Jack was still out, so she debates just letting whoever it is knock a few more times, then grow bored and walk away. But then there’s a faint, accented voice on the other side.  
“Hello?”

 

Anne recognizes that voice, from the brief moments they had shared. She sits up, holding onto her glass, just as the voice continues, “I have another pie delivery."

 

There's a pause, then the voice continues, "It’s not peach, if that convinces you.”

 

Anne considers her options. She could continue to ignore that voice, or just say something scathing to scare the woman away. Or she could answer the door. 

 

She sets the glass onto the scuffed coffee table.

 

“I would leave it out on the step, but I’m afraid that those squirrels in that bush would take it away, and then I would get in trouble-” she cuts off as Anne swings open the door. 

 

In the sunlight, the woman’s eyes seem to glow for a moment when she takes Anne in, with a considering look. Anne belatedly realizes that the loose tee shirt is sliding off one shoulder, her shorts tight around her thighs, as the other woman’s eyes flick up and down her frame. Anne shivers, but not unpleasantly. 

 

“You’ve cut your hair,” the woman says after a moment. "It suits you." 

 

Anne fingers the newly shorn ends of her hair - Jack had met her eyes in the dirty mirror in the upstairs, watched as she had hacked away at it. She jerks her head at the pie box. “What flavor is it, then?” 

 

“Boysenberry,” the woman replies smoothly. “Anne, right? My name is Max.”

 

“What’s it to you?” Anne demands on reflex. There’s a revolver tucked above the door frame, but she stops her fingers from reflexively reaching for it. 

 

“It says so on the label,” Max says, and she holds it out in the space between them. “Please, take it.”

 

Anne glances down at it. Max’s hands look soft but strong. She can see the curve of her wrist around the edge of the cardboard, the way her nails are even and painted a dark red color. Anne has a vivid image of kissing her wrists flash through her mind, and she shivers again. 

 

Perhaps it’s the whiskey still running hot through her veins, the fact that she feels lonely in this big house, or the appreciative, slow look Max is still giving her, but Anne holds open the door wider. “You should have a slice,” she says, and she watches as Max’s eyes widen. 

 

Max steps inside.

 

•••

 

 

It’s a slow day at the bakery. The few people who have filtered in, he serves quickly, and while they enjoy fresh slices and coffee, Silver goes to the back to set up a few more pies. Max should be back soon, anyway, so he only goes out every ten minutes or so to make sure everyone is taken care of- and the bell at the door can alert him of new customers.

 

He’s slicing strawberries, feeling them plump up and shed their rot underneath his touch. He puts them in the pan, absent-mindedly preparing a reduction recipe he’s had in mind for a few days when the door swings open.

 

Silver knows who it is without looking, and he glances through the door, not looking at the man who walked in yet. 

 

“No one saw my face,” Flint says quietly from the corner, leaning against the fridge. Silver exhales, continues cutting the fruit. Flint watches him bring the fruit back to life, methodical, and his expression only flickers when Silver finishes with the strawberries. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Flint says finally, and Silver avoids cutting his finger in order to look at him properly.“This can’t be easy for you, either, and I understand that you might be feeling some... guilt over the situation you’ve put me in.”

 

“You didn’t ask for this,” Silver points out. “You were _murdered_ , I’m not going to ask for your apologies.”

 

“But I give them to you anyways,” Flint says steadily, and Silver looks down again. “I’ve been angry, for most of my life. You don’t deserve that.”

 

Silver frowns down at the strawberries. “It’s a strange situation,” he allows, “But I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

 

Flint huffs out a laugh, and Silver looks up at him again. “Do you find that funny?”

 

“There is an optimistic way to look at all of this,” Flint says. “I cannot see another situation in which we would have been reunited, and with relatively peaceful conditions, too.”

  
“We’re looking for the person who shot you, going underneath the law to collect a fortune in gold, and we’re actively seeking an infamous drug dealer,” Silver points out. “What part of that is peaceful?”

 

Flint looks at him, then, and he crosses the kitchen to lean against the counter, across from Silver. “I’m not a good man. I think this is the most time I’ve gone in far too long without being shot at.” 

 

“Careful, you haven’t seen me wield a rolling pin,” Silver jokes, but he straightens up when the look in Flint’s eye intensifies. “What?” 

 

“I was just thinking, in another time, another place, I’d kiss you right now,” Flint says steadily, and Silver blinks. His mouth goes dry, and perhaps he shouldn’t be as surprised, with how the past several days they’ve danced around _that_ , but still, Flint saying it so clearly, his expression open, stuns him slightly. 

 

Flint’s eyes drop down to his mouth, then, and Silver lets his tongue dart out to his mouth. He watches Flint swallows, and he wishes he could press his lips against the freckles that dot the skin just below the edge of his jaw. “In another time, another place,” Silver replies, seeing Flint’s eyes flick back up to his, ‘I’d let you.” 

 

Flint stares at him, and there’s something wistful about Flint’s expression when he straightens up as well, breaking this moment. “I should go back up to the apartment,” he says, sounding slightly gruff, and Silver nods. 

 

“You should,” he agrees, but then they’re both still staring at each other when the doors open again. Billy, who looks harried as usual, is holding a thick folder. He barely casts a look at Flint when he makes his way over to Silver. 

 

“I’ve got- what’s wrong with you?” he asks abruptly.

 

“Nothing. What do you have for me?” Silver asks instead. Flint busies himself stacking some bowls in the corner. 

 

“Well,” Billy says slowly as if he’s still unsure from whatever he saw on Silver’s face, “I’ve gotten the results from Teach’s autopsy. Same gun that killed Flint- er, shot him, and police have a lead. I managed to copy some photos from the case file, here.” 

 

“Do we have a name?” Silver says, taking the folder. Flint abandons the bowls, coming closer.

 

“Couldn’t get it,” Billy says. “That damn Rogers was on duty, he wouldn’t give it to me-” 

 

“Never mind that,” Flint says impatiently. “We need a police scanner. That’ll give us at least some information on their operations if they’re moving in on a suspect.” 

 

“And where,” Billy says icily, turning to acknowledge Flint, “Do you have one of those on you?”  


 

“Pawnshop,” Flint answers, holding out his hand to Silver, who hands him the folder in turn. “I’ll go. You should go back and ask the morgue examiner if Teach had any drugs in his system.”

 

“Why would I- what are you even doing here?” Billy says incredulously. “Silver!”

 

“Don’t look at me,” Silver says with a shrug. “Though, why drugs?” 

  
  
“Teach had a bit of a habit back in the day. If he used before he died, it might help narrow down the places he would have gone to get his fix. He was a paranoid bastard like that,” Flint says absent-mindedly while he flips through the photos in the folder. “Did they recover any gun?”

 

“No,” Billy says. “I’m not going to go back to the morgue, I just came from there!”  


 

“Do it,” Silver says, as Flint just ignores the other man. “Flint’s right. Anything we can use, we need to know.”

  
“I don’t recognize anyone in these photos, just some of Teach’s henchmen,” Flint says frustratedly, putting the folder back on the counter. “Are there more?”

 

“Well _excuse me_ if those aren’t to your liking-” Billy starts hotly, but all three of them fall quiet when they hear a low rumble towards the front, belonging to a group of people that just walked in most likely.

 

“Silver, control the dead man,” Billy orders him, grabbing the folder back and walking through the door. Flint doesn’t even have the decency to look abashed. 

 

“Billy’s, ah, trying his best. With all of this,” Silver tries. “Try not to burn down this place while I’m gone.” 

 

“Where are you going?” Flint asks.

 

“I’m going to pay a visit to Teach,” Silver says, taking off his apron and slinging it onto the table, “And you’re going to stay here.” 

 

“I most certainly am not,” Flint says. “Even if he’s recently dead, he’ll more likely than not try to kill you the moment he sees you. I’m going with you.” 

 

 

•••

 

 

Somewhere between Anne’s third and fourth glass of whiskey, she starts talking about Flint. They’re lounging on the couch, now, relaxed once Max was certain that Anne wasn’t about to stuff her in the fridge next to Jack’s cheese collection.

 

“He was like a fucked up older brother to us, y’know,” she says, fingers tracing around the rim of her glass. Max, taking a sip out of her own glass of water, makes an assenting noise. Her eyes are carefully lined with black smudges, looking perfectly put together even though the room is borderline too humid. Anne can feel her shirt stick in between her shoulder blades, the material clinging to the beads of sweat there. 

 

“He got me the parrot,” Anne says then, with a nod of her head towards the gilded cage in the corner of the room. It’s covered in a pale blue cloth, clinging to the bars and in the shadows. “Rotten bastard. Rotten, ginger bastard. He’d joke that he’d just have one of those faces, what with the hair and all, when we pulled jobs together. Nearly got us caught a few times.”

 

She probably shouldn’t be telling the gorgeous, strange woman about their criminal backgrounds. But then Max is pouring her more whiskey, and Anne has to try very hard not to stare at those perfect fingers curled around her glass. 

 

“A bird,” Max murmurs, setting down the bottle with a quiet clink. “Why do you keep it covered?”

 

“Used to be Flint’s. He was always a- _ha_ \- night owl,” Anne mumbles into her glass, taking a sip of the heady liquid. “Damn thing screeches if it’s put in the sunlight for too much, also when we feed it. Jack usually takes care of it, now.”

 

“Jack,” Max repeats quietly, looking thoughtful. “Your husband?” 

 

Anne scoffs. “I don’t have a husband,” she says, and is silenced by Max’s warm hand on hers. 

 

“Such beautiful things are not meant to be kept in cages,” Max says, even though she’s never seen the damn bird, and Anne feels the heat climb up her neck. “Forgive me, but I feel as though we have known each other for years, that this afternoon has brought us immeasurably close.”

 

Her thumb strokes over the soft part of Anne’s hand. Anne leans into the touch ever so slightly, feeling something low in her gut coil. She can see the promise in Max’s eyes, and she wonders if she should lean forward- but then the door’s opening, and Anne is frozen in her seat. 

 

Jack glances between the two of them as he comes through the door. He doesn’t usually carry a gun, but his hand still drifts to his side at the sight of Max. “A friend?” 

 

Max glances back at Anne. “I did not mean to intrude-” 

 

“Hmm,” Jack says, and Anne knows he sees Max’s hand on hers, but he barely raises an eyebrow, not that it brings her any comfort. “Aren’t you the pie girl?” 

 

Anne gets up, suddenly, and the glass slides out of her hand. It breaks onto the ground, and both Max and Jack look at her, both surprised. She can feel tiny glass slivers that have fallen to the tops of her feet- not stuck in the skin yet, but a warning.

 

  
“You need to go,” she says to Max, who just looks confused. "Get out." 

 

But then Max gets up, brushing off her lap, and sets the glass down. She looks again at Anne, but Anne can’t focus on her, not right now. 

 

She walks back out of the door, making Jack step back as she does so. Jack winces when Anne manages to deftly step over the broken glass, even though she remains unharmed, and there’s an unhappy tone to his voice. “Anne, we need to talk.” 

 

Anne stalks by him as if that’s answer enough, and she can hear Jack let out an angry exhale before she slams the door, feeling drunk and  _sad_. The feeling swells in her chest, something far stronger than any amount of alcohol she could stomach, and this - this, she hates. 

 

•••

 

Flint, for his credit, remains quiet the entire ride to the coroner’s office. He stares out the window the entire trip there while Silver keeps his eyes on the road. 

 

The medical examiner, a short man by the name of Randall, stares at them when they walk in. 

 

“We’re the ballistics team requested by the state,” Silver says. 

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Randall says. 

 

“Dr. Little,” Silver says, and then he tilts his head to Flint at his side, who’s unfortunately still wearing a pair of Silver’s blue shorts, “This is my assistant, Mr. Smith.”

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Randall says. “Door’s unlocked. It’s lunch break time.”

 

He goes back to reading his book, and Silver glances at Flint- who raises an eyebrow- and they make their way in to the morgue.

 

The room, as usual, is just a touch too brightly lit, and there’s a vague scent of ammonia that hangs in the air. True to Randall’s word, there’s no one else in there, and Silver scans over the list as Flint peers around the room.

 

“Teach is in the third one,” Silver says, and together, they open the drawers to reveal Teach’s body.

 

In death, the man has a fierce scowl plastered on his face, the bullet wound through his forehead dark and puckered. Flint has an equally ugly look on his face when Silver looks up at him. “I only have a minute, so please, try to avoid picking a fight,” Silver requests, and he touches Teach’s shoulder.

 

Teach’s eyes flicker open, and it’s only because of Flint’s arms over his shoulders that he doesn’t take a swing at them. “What the fuck,” the older man says before he starts to thrash under Flint’s arms. 

 

“Mr. Teach, please,” Silver tries in his voice that he reserves for these sorts of things. “I’m going to need you to remain calm-”

 

“ _Fuck being calm!”_ Teach shouts, and Silver glances up at the door, but Randall doesn’t appear. “I need to find Charles-”  


 

“Charles Vane?” Flint says, loosening his grip when Teach relaxes slightly. “Did Charles shoot you?” 

 

Teach’s eyes narrow. “Flint? What the fuck are you doing here?” His eyes dart to Flint, then back to Silver. “I was shot, and now I’m here.” 

 

“Who shot you?” Silver asks again, keeping an eye on his wristwatch. “Mr. Teach, I’m going to have to ask you to comply, for both of our interests, and time is of the essence, especially so in this particular event.”

 

“Did Charles shoot you?” Flint demands, shaking Teach slightly. “Tell me, or so help me-”

 

“Or what, you’ll kill me again?” Teach taunts, hands coming up to squeeze at Flint’s wrists in a way that Silver winces at. “Fuck you for asking that, and fuck you-” Teach jabs his finger, suddenly wrestling his arm free from Flint’s grasp, and because everything in this universe seems fit to work against Silver, the tip of his finger strikes just at the bare skin of his shirt next to the collar. 

 

He goes still and rigid on the table once more, and Flint slowly releases the body. 

 

“Shit,” Silver says in dismay. “Why the fuck did he have to do that?”  


 

Flint lets out a huff through his nose, as they both look down at the body. “Shit,” he says in agreement.

 

 

•••

 

 

Billy’s voice is shrill over the phone speaker. “What did you do?” he asks, sounding tinny.

 

Silver sighs. “We didn’t get an answer from Teach. But something about his words makes me think that Vane wasn’t the one who shot him.”

 

“Did he give you another name?” Billy demands.

 

“Of course he didn’t,” Silver tells him, to the phone that Flint’s holding in his hand as they drive back to the bakery. “Billy, we’ll find Vane, and we’re going to end this mess-”

 

There’s a click, and Silver stops talking. "Did he just - "

  
  
“He hung up,” Flint says, rather unnecessarily.

 

“I got that,” Silver bites back. 

 

  
  
•••

 

 

Max sees Silver’s car pull up through the windows. She’s cleaning off tables, and she pauses for a moment to grab the second clean towel she’s using the dry off the surfaces.

 

Silver seems to be bickering with the other person in the car, which she recognizes as his friend from earlier, James. Max stops to watch them for a moment. 

 

She notices that they don’t touch. All things considering, she would pass it off as an attempt at subtly, if not for the fact that they _really_ don’t touch. But it’s confounded by the way that Silver stares after James when he walks through the shop, or when James’s tone had gone soft this morning when he was talking about his childhood growing up with Silver.

 

The sunlight hits the car window, a cloud finally moving out of its way, and it shines through the window. It catches the two men’s profiles in bright light, casting James’s hair in particular into a fierce shade of red-gold.

 

Suddenly, Max remembers her conversation with Anne, her conversation with James this morning. _The hair doesn’t help_.

 

Max remembers the police sketch that’s been circulating over the past week or so, of the figure that had stunned Silver when he saw the picture on the television screen.

 

Could it be- 

 

No, James is dead. 

 

But- 

 

The two men eventually get out of the car, enter the bakery. “Max, settle a debate for us, would you,” Silver starts, picking up a dirty plate. James glances at her, and she watches as he freezes at whatever expression’s on her face. It’s the final nail in the coffin that confirms her suspicions - and oh, if that phrase doesn't have some relevance right now. She would laugh if her mind wasn't reeling. 

 

Silver only looks over when the two are silent. “Max?” 

 

“Silver,” Max says, then turns to the other man. “That is James Flint.”

 

Silver pales, but Max focuses on Flint’s face, as he watches her carefully. Max remembers the circumstances around the man’s death- or not death?

 

She grips her broom in two hands, fear prickling at her now. “You’re supposed to be dead," she says. 

 

 


	3. Strawberry Rhubarb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (oops)

Silver glances between Max and Flint. “There is a perfectly rational explanation for this,” he says, and from the look on Max’s face,  she doubts that just as much as Silver wishes that this wasn’t happening right now. 

 

Flint sends him a look like _There is_? and really, Silver doesn’t appreciate that look. Max arches her eyebrow after a moment when he doesn’t respond, waiting as she crosses her arms. 

 

“He was, in fact, the dead man,” is what comes out of Silver’s usually eloquent yet traitorous mouth, “But now he’s alive again."

 

“You're supposed to be dead,” Max repeats, glaring at Flint. “He is that criminal who died, the one on the news. Would you care to explain that?"

 

“I'm also an old friend,” Flint says, and now Silver shoots a glare at him. 

 

“I’m calling the police,” Max decides. 

 

“Wait, Max,” Silver says, and then it’s like in slow motion when Max starts to reach for her cell phone, “Max Max Max  _Max_ -“ 

 

But before she can dial, Flint seizes her wrist. Her elbow flies up in response, connecting solidly with his jaw, and Flint grunts. He doesn’t let go, though, as Max tries to wrestle free of his long arms, still holding the phone between her painted fingernails. 

 

Silver steps forward just as Flint successively gets a grip on Max’s cell phone, his fingers closing around the screen, yanking it away from her and taking a step away. Max follows him for a moment until he holds her phone too high for her to reach, hitting him in the center of his chest with a frustrated sound. 

 

Flint winces while Silver finally manages to grab Max’s arm. “Ow,” he says.

 

“John Silver,” Max says then, turning back to him. Her eyes are furious, spots of color high on her cheeks, as she twists her arm away from Flint’s grasp, says something in rapid French that he doesn’t need to translate in order to get the gist of. 

 

“He meant well,” Flint supplies, evidently understanding her. "I'm sorry." 

 

“It’s an incredibly long story,” Silver says, and then he's forced to duck as Max throws the closest thing at him - which turns out to be a pen from the counter. “Max!”

 

“The police won’t believe you,” Flint says, seeming content to just watch as Max flings another pen at Silver’s head, “But if you give us a moment, we can explain.” 

 

Max gives up on throwing things at Silver, but when she  turns back to Flint, who’s eyeing her warily, Silver takes the chance to subtly pushes away the knives that he left on the counter. “You are James Flint?” Max asks, nearly accusing.

 

“Yes,” Flint says. 

 

“You faked your own death,” Max says, and John can see her mind working, “But they recovered your body.” 

 

“Well,” Silver says, “They, ah, thought they found his body. But then he went missing, and no one really wants to report that, do they?” 

 

Max scoffs. “Now you’re just lying right to my face - “ 

 

“John has a gift,” Flint tells her, and Max’s eyes go to him. Flint looks at Silver. “I don’t know how else to explain it to her.” 

 

Silver pinches his nose. He hadn’t expected telling Max _this way_  - but he exhales, letting go of his nose. Flint’s right. It’s far from ideal, but Max will see through anything he tries to explain it away with. Even if the truth _is_ something that she would never guess - or perhaps won’t believe. 

 

“What gift?” Max demands, turning back to look at him now. "John?"

 

Silver nods past her, to the shiny metal door of the refrigerator. “Open that. Take out one of the cartons - it’s easier if I show you.” 

 

Max complies, and he can see her recoil when she sees the rotting fruit. “What is this?” 

 

“Just do it,” Silver says, glancing over at Flint. His expression is unreadable. 

 

Max gingerly picks up a carton, bringing it over to him. It’s full of dead strawberries, and Silver watches her as he touches one of them, seeing that little line between her eyebrows relax in shock as the fruit springs back to life, the color turning vibrant once again. 

 

He touches another, then another, all to the same effect, and he can hear the sharp inhale that Max makes at the sight. He touches one again, and they’re both silent as they watch the fruit shrivel, the faint crackle just audible as the leaves fall off its top. 

 

“He’s like the dead fruit,” Max says, obviously processing this. 

 

Silver says, “Well, when you put it like that - “

 

“Someone shot me, and now I have an opportunity to fix this wrongdoing,” Flint tells her. “I’ve come back to find out who did it, and John has agreed to help me.” 

 

Max asks as if to confirm, “He brought you back to life?”

 

“He did,” Flint confirms. He pulls his shirt to the side a little, where there’s a not-quite-healed hole in his shoulder, one that will likely never heal. “If he touches me, I die again.”  

 

Silver thinks about pie splattered on the ground of the black and white kitchen tile, the dark circles under James’s eyes in the cemetery as they buried his grandfather. That guilt is back, rolling around in his stomach, and when he clenches the carton just a little too tightly, the other strawberries roll into his skin and shriveling back into a dark brown color. He sets down the carton on the counter.

 

“The pie deliveries,” Max says, eyes still on the dead fruit. “Your associates related to - this?” 

 

“They don’t know,” Silver says. 

 

“I thought you were just sleeping together and did not want me to know,” Max says, and she finally looks up from the strawberries. “But this - “ she cuts herself off. “This, I could not come up with.” 

 

Silver clears his throat. “We’re not, ah, sleeping together, either. Just as long as we’re being entirely honest here.” 

 

“No,” Flint says, “I think that would be a bad idea.” 

 

“It is a pity, though,” Silver says before his brain quite catches up to his mouth, and he resists the urge to flush when Flint looks up at him suddenly, surprised. Silver raises an eyebrow back - he’s not going to deny it now. Flint shakes his head ever so slightly, but then the corner of his mouth is tilting up anyways, amusement winning over the other expression, and Silver has to hide his own smile.

 

“That was easier to believe instead of you lying to me,” Max tells them, and the warm feeling in Silver’s gut dissipates just as quickly as it came up. Her face is flat, now, hurt, and it dregs up that guilt again, the feeling coming back with an ache. “For how long?”

 

“Max - “

 

She holds up a hand. “How long?” 

 

“I wanted to tell you,” Silver says then, because he _did_ , and even though he knows she has every right to walk out right now and never come back, he has to say it. “I just didn’t know how to - honestly. Please believe me on that.” 

 

Flint's looking at him when he glances over, his gaze heavy. 

 

“Who else knows?” Max asks, sharp, but she’s not walking out anymore or threatening to call the police. “Who knows about Flint, about your powers?” 

 

“Billy,” Silver says. “Now Flint, and you. No one else."

 

“When Billy is here - he works as a private investigator, correct?” 

 

“Yes,” Silver says. 

 

Silver can watch her put it together as she then asks, “The money, it comes from working with him?"

 

“Well, not _all_ the money - “

 

“People do not pay that much for your pies,” Max says. “You use your powers to solve his cases, don’t you?”

 

“I’d say he solves the cases himself, and Billy tags along,” Flint speaks up, and both Max and Silver shoot him a look. He looks utterly unrepentant. “It’s his gift."

 

“He just doesn’t like Billy because he keeps on calling him _the dead man,”_ Silver says, dragging his eyes away from Flint. “Max - for what it’s worth, I am sorry - "

 

But Max turns to Flint. “I’ve met both Anne and Jack. They do not know that you are back. Tell me, why should I not go to them with this development?” 

 

“It’s for their own safety,” Flint answers, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “I need to focus on who took the gold.” 

 

“Do you even know who killed you?” Max asks, rather coolly. “Because I do not see _why_  you would put them through this unless it’s as simple as greed - “ 

 

“The gold cannot fall into the wrong hands,” Flint says to her, and the tightness in his voice makes Silver drag his eyes away from Max to look at him. “That is my priority, and that is what I am here for now. I _am_ trying to avoid any undue hurt, even if it means not telling them that I am alive.”

 

Max looks at him for a long time, enough so that Silver nearly feels the urge to squirm, but Flint just calmly looks right back at her. “I trust you no more, but I will hear you out,” she decides.

 

“That’s fair,” Flint says, as Silver settles on just looking right back at Max. “Did Anne try to shoot you, when you visited?” 

 

“Well,” Max says, and there’s a glimmer of some expression on her face, “She took some time to - warm up to me, as they say."

 

“Oh,” Flint says, surprise flitting across his face, then inexplicably, something like faint amusement. “ _Oh_.” 

 

“I’m a little lost right now,” Silver says, “But more importantly, Max - can I trust that you won’t tell anyone?” 

 

Max turns back to look at him for a long moment. “Of course,” she says. “But John - you could have told me.”

 

But before he can say anything - not that he thinks that anything he could say now would get him out of any difficult conversations in his very immediate future, there’s a sound of an engine coming from outside. 

 

The windows light up, the textured glass suddenly bright from headlights out front that stay fixed on them. Silver would think it was Billy, but he didn’t hear the clunking sounds of the old Coronet, so the owner of the car out front remains a mystery.  


 

“Perhaps they are late customers,” Max says, even though they never get customers this late at night. “I will tell them to leave - “ 

 

“People looking for directions?” Silver suggests when they hear the front doors open, the bell tinkling like a warning. “People who clearly disregard  _Sorry we’re closed_  signs?”

 

“They’re here to kill us,” Flint says.  "Go to the back." 

 

Both Silver and Max look at him, stunned.  “I have a feeling,” Flint says, somewhat defensively, just as the doors to the store open, “They must have followed us from the coroner’s office.“ 

 

But there’s no time for Flint to hide, not as two men step into the Pie Hole, looking rather ominous in close-fit grey suits. 

 

“I’m sorry, we are closed,” Max says briskly, but she doesn’t move forward, closer to them. She’s always been the smart one, Silver thinks, as opposed to Flint, who takes a small step towards them. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.” 

 

But then one of the men shifts his jacket to the side, revealing a gun at his hip. “I don’t think so,” the taller one says. “Is anyone else here?” 

 

“I believe she asked you to leave,” Flint says, and he steps in front of both of them. “Your problem is with me, not them. I’ll thank you to recognize that now.” 

 

“Hey,” one of them says, and he looks over at his partner before snapping his head back like he doesn't want to keep his eyes off of Flint, “You’re supposed to be dead!”

 

“Flint -  “ Silver gets out in warning, before Flint glances back at him.

 

There’s a hard look in his eyes that makes Silver take pause. “Go into the back, take her with you,” Flint says, and then he’s charging right at the two men.

 

 

•••

 

 

The television is on in the front room when Anne finally emerges. Jack is sitting on the couch, polishing one of his shiny oxfords. He sets down the shoe when he sees her. “You’re awake,” he says. In front of him, some old western is playing, black and white figures darting across the small screen. He and Charles like watching these, usually when Anne is polishing her knives in the background with her feet propped up on the counter. 

 

“Sorry,” she gets out after a moment, gruff. “Was sleeping.”

 

Jack looks at her for a long moment, before picking up his shoe again with a barely perceptible nod. “I spoke on the phone to Charles,” he says. “A very short conversation, but never less illuminating, to say the least.” 

 

“He’s around?” The last time they had heard from him, it had been a curt message left on the landline that the meeting with Flint had gone bad, and they needed to lay low. “Figured he would’ve fucked off by now.” 

 

“He seems to be in hiding, and with good reason,” Jack says. “He didn’t wish to say much while on the line, but I suspect that he’s got more problems now that Teach is dead, and boarding a plane to any destination might not be the wisest of choices.” 

 

Anne pushes forward the carpet just a little with her bare foot. “So he’s not the one who shot Teach?” 

 

“It seems not,” Jack says. “I don’t see why he’d lie about it.” Jack and Charles had always been close, and while Anne personally had her reservations on whether or not Charles was innocent of shooting his ex-mentor, she knows Jack wouldn’t appreciate hearing such sentiments. 

 

She turns to the screen, then, the faint sound of the brush passing over Jack’s shoe resuming. On the screen, one of the men is delivering an impassioned speech, the wrinkles in his eyes deepened by the lack of color. 

 

“I’ll keep it short,” Jack says, and Anne stiffens, but she doesn’t move when he doesn’t stop brushing the top of his shoe off. “Seeing you with that woman, earlier, it was as close to happy as I’ve seen you recently, but I’m worried that - “

 

“You gonna tell me off?” Anne says, challenging. “That’s what you want?” 

 

“While I would prefer you not to invite strangers into the house when we’re supposed to be avoiding any attention, no, I’m not going to _tell you off_ ,” Jack tells her. “I just want you to be happy, darling.” 

 

She slouches into the cushions as an answer. Jack says, “I just don’t want you to rush into anything reckless while you’re grieving.” 

 

“I’m not grieving.” 

 

“Oh, right, you’re staying inside this stuffy house just for fun, is it?”

 

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Anne says, sharp then, even though she knows Jack hates it when she closes off like this. “I invited her in - fuck, I don’t know why is that what you want me to say?”

 

“Not to cast doubt upon her character, but you don’t know her,” Jack says. “Just for now, would you consider perhaps avoiding the devastatingly attractive women while we’re attempting not to get shot?” 

 

“She works at the pie shop in the city,” Anne says. “I checked her out. She doesn’t even have any unpaid parking tickets.”  

 

The television program goes to commercial, something with upbeat music that makes Anne itch inside, especially when Jack doesn’t say anything. Finally, she says, “I don’t - I don’t know how to do this. I didn’t think I’d miss the bastard so much.” She can feel Jack’s eyes on the side of her head. “Guess I wanted to feel something again, and she - could be that.” 

 

Jack gets up, and for a horrifying moment, Anne thinks that this is it, that this is what breaks the camel’s back, as his footsteps move away. It’s short-lived, irrational, and yet when Jack returns, this time with two beers, she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. 

 

She takes one of the bottles. 

 

“Well, here’s to irrational decisions involving women,” Jack says, and he clinks his bottle against hers. “Flint, that homosexual bastard, would be shaking his head at us right now.” 

 

“Yeah,” Anne says. They sit for a while like that, drinking in silence. On the screen, there’s a shootout, and the man from before squints dramatically as he’s shot, flinging himself onto the ground. 

 

“You feed the bird?” Anne asks then, and Jack huffs.

 

“I’m not approaching that thing,” he says, “She nearly bit off my finger last time I tried.”

 

“You just have to be patient. She’s not so bad.” 

 

“She have a name anyways?” Jack asks, turning to eye the covered cage.

 

Anne shrugs. “Flint named her something stuffy,” she says, and for once, it doesn’t feel quite so painful to say his name. “Some biblical shit, I dunno.” 

 

  


•••

 

 

Silver dares to look up and over the counter, but then another gunshot rings out. He ducks, huddling next to Max on the ground, who’s glaring at him with a look that he hasn’t seen since that one time he had stumbled out of the pantry, his shirt untucked, with an attractive customer during the morning rush. 

 

There’s a thud, a muffled shout, and then a loud cracking sound. Silver says, “Is that - “

 

There’s another gunshot, and both he and Max press themselves closer to the ground. “Shit,” Silver says, “If he shoots my booths, so help me - “

 

“ _Fuck_ the booths,” Max hisses. “We need to get out - “

 

But before he and Max can book it, he can hear Flint’s voice calling out. “It’s over,” he says, sounding weary but not like he’s dying from a bullet. Again. “You can come on out.” 

 

Both of them look at each other, and then Silver rises first. “We’re going to have a serious talk about criminal etiquette,” he says, cautiously pushing open the door. “This - oh. Oh god.” 

 

Flint’s in the middle of pulling the shutters shut on the store. He glances back at them, as Max collides with Silver’s back. “I’ll clean up the mess,” he says, as Silver looks with no small amount of horror at the puddles of blood on the ground. “Do you have a mop?” 

 

He has a split lip, and the shirt he’d borrowed from Silver is ripped, but otherwise looked mostly unscathed. Past him, the two men from before are now propped up in the booths, one of them - Silver notices, and he has to stifle the urge to nervously laugh - with his hands splayed out on the table like he’s waiting for a menu. That one has a bullet hole that’s still bleeding from his forehead, his eyes wide and unseeing, while the other’s neck is at an awkward angle, face turned away from them. 

 

Flint follows his gaze. “In case anyone looked in,” he says, and he picks up the guns still on the ground, tucking him into his waistband. Silver finds himself rather struck mute at the sight of two dead men in his bakery as he continues, “These walls are decently thick, though, so I doubt anyone called the police.” 

 

Behind him, he can hear Max make some small sound. “You’ve done this before?” 

 

“Well,” Flint says, “Yes.” 

 

“We’ll need to dispose of their bodies somewhere,” Silver says, sounding a little faint even to his own ears. “The dumpster out back - it’s full, they don’t pick up until Tuesday.” 

 

“That’s fine,” Flint says. “I’ll borrow your car. Do you have any cinderblocks?” 

 

“Jesus Christ,” Max says. 

 

Although right now he’s rather in a mood to lock himself into the pantry and start screaming, Silver takes a deep breath in, and he tries to figures out what to do now. “These men,” he says, “Teach’s?” 

 

“I was rather hoping you’d be able to help me with that,” Flint says, and he nods towards the now bloodied booth. Silver glances back at Max, as Flint continues, “If they are, we need to know who’s resumed his operations, and why they were going to question you.” 

 

Max watches as Silver approaches, then. He’s more than hesitant to do this in front of Max, but if there’s a chance that more are out to interrogate them, he needs to do this. He reaches out, but before he can, Flint steps forward, and Silver yanks his hand back lest he accidentally touch him. 

 

“Wait,” Flint says, and he slides into the booth next to one of the bodies, the one with the twisted neck, tugging his arms behind his back so he’s restraining him. Silver remembers Teach, and he’s a little miffed that he didn’t think of that himself. “All right, go.”

 

Aware of Max’s eyes on him, Silver reaches out, touching the man’s arm. The man jolts as if he was waking up, stopped by Flint’s grip. “Hey,” he says, “Hey, wait - “

 

“I killed you,” Flint says. “You fought well."

 

“Thanks - I think,” the man says, trying to look at them - which he can’t, not with his neck in such an unnatural position. “What’s happening?” 

 

“Who sent you?” Silver asks instead, as the man continues to squirm. He glances down at his watch. “Was it Edward Teach?” 

 

“I’d answer him,” Flint tells him when doesn’t seem keen on answering, “Unless you want to die again.” 

 

Silver thinks to himself that they’re awfully good at this - and that Max might dial the police after all if she’s witnessing this. The man seems convinced by Flint as he stops moving. “Teach,” he says, scoffing. “He didn’t send us.” 

 

“Then who did?” Flint demands, his grip tightening on the man’s torso. 

 

Whatever they're expecting, it’s not for the man to say, “We work for Woodes Rogers,“ just as his watch reaches the minute mark, and Silver quickly touches him. He goes limp one again, and after a moment, Flint lets go of him. 

 

Silver sits back. “Woodes Rogers,” he repeats. “As in - “ 

 

“The police chief Woodes Rogers?” Max asks.

 

Flint stands up. “We’ll confirm with the other one,” he says, brusque, and they switch places. He holds onto his arms while Silver touches the other man, Max folding her arms from across the room. 

 

This one gasps, loud and sharp like he’s catching his breath. Flint says, “Did Woodes Rogers send you?” 

 

“Yeah,” he says, “Wait - how did you know that?” 

 

“Just call it a feeling,” Silver says, as the man stares at his partner who’s dead across from him. “Why did you come here?”

 

The man frowns. “We followed you from the coroner’s,” he says. “You were looking into Teach’s death, and Rogers thinks you might be in contact with Vane.”

 

“Vane,” Flint echoes. “Rogers is looking for him?”

 

“Well, yeah,” the man says. “He’s got the gold."

 

In the silence that spreads out after that particular revelation, Silver hedges, “You, uh, have any last wishes?”

 

“You’re really going to ask him that?” Flint asks, just as the man says, “What?” 

 

“Never mind,” Silver says, reaching out and touching the other man. After a long moment, Flint leans back in the booth, seemingly undisturbed by the dead body next to him. 

 

“The police chief,” Silver says as if to confirm, “Is sending hitmen after us. That’s what we’re all getting from this, right?” 

 

“He must be after the gold,” Max says, and both of them turn to look at her. “Rogers was always dismissive of the laws that held his officers accountable. The gold would certainly give him power for whatever agenda he wished."

 

“You know him?” Flint asks. 

 

“Before Eleanor and I were together, she dated Rogers,” Max says to Silver, and he carefully hides the wince on his face. Eleanor was Max’s ex-girlfriend - if by calling her an ex-girlfriend, one could encapsulate the on-and-off, tumultuous, heart-breaking relationship that they had had, to which Silver had been an unfortunate front-row witness to. During the final break-up, multiple plates had been smashed on the ground, and he had to give all the customers their pie on the house that morning. “She had an…. unfavorable view of him, and for all the problems that we had, I would not put it past Rogers to commit these crimes.” 

 

“Eleanor - you mean Eleanor Guthrie?” Flint asks, and now both Max and Silver look at him. “She and I have crossed paths a few times. She’s a good detective.”

 

“I thought you would not be such a big fan of police detectives,” Silver says. “You know. With the carefully crafted criminal background and all.”

 

“She has arrested me several times, yes, but she is intelligent and driven,” Flint says. “I can respect that she does her job well. More importantly, we may need to find her in order to be done with this.” 

 

“And exactly how many times have you been arrested?” Silver asks him, unable to help himself. 

 

“Enough,” Max interrupts, as Flint gives him a small smile, one that’s nearly a smirk, and yet makes something inside him tingle. “How will Eleanor help us?” 

 

“Us?” Silver asks, tearing his eyes away from Flint to look at her. “How are you involved?” 

 

Max slants him an unimpressed look. “If you are so convinced to take this dangerous path, then I will not let you hurl yourself headfirst into it without my assistance,” she tells him. “Besides, if the news reports are to be believed, there is something substantial to be gained from this danger.” 

 

Silver and Flint exchange a look, and Max sighs. “You are after the gold, yes? I presume that it was under your ownership before your death, and part of this is to recover it.” 

 

“Uh,” Silver says. “Well - "

 

“What are you interested in?” Flint asks. He’s eyeing Max, considering. “Do you want a share?” 

 

“One fourth,” Max says. “Given that you had two men follow you back here, you will need my help. I know a number of people in this city who will be able to help us especially in getting information.” 

 

She gives a significant look at the two dead men behind them. Silver’s suddenly reminded of the gaps in her work history, and not for the first time, he thinks that Max might more expertise in this than she has let on. He’s not sure whether to be glad or terrified. On one hand, if Max can truly help them, they need all the resources they can manage, but to put her in harm’s way - 

 

“Done,” Flint says, clearly having made the decision. He holds out his hand. 

 

“Billy’s going to not like this,” Silver points out, as they shake hands. 

 

“Billy’s not here now, is he?” Flint says rather snidely. He turns to Max. “If we can get to Eleanor, she might have been in contact with Vane. They were - seeing each other, in a manner of speaking. If Vane has the gold, she might know about it.” 

 

“How do you know Vane has it?” Silver asks. “I understand that you might want to find him, but if he didn’t kill Teach - “ 

 

"If Rogers is sending men to a bakery to try to find out why we might be interested in Teach’s death, he likely does not already have the gold,” Max says, looking as though she’s calculating something in her head. “Otherwise they would have just shot us and not asked any questions beforehand to clean up any loose ends.”  

 

“You think she wants it for herself?” Silver asks. Max and Flint look at each other, probably having a telepathic conversation at this point. 

 

“I think fifty million is a lot of money,” Max says. “Eleanor had plans for this city, and as she might be a player in this game, we must not forget about her. But we can’t go directly to her anyways - she doesn’t know John, she couldn’t see me without Eleanor knowing I had been around, and I think we can agree that the fewer people that know that Mr. Flint is alive, the better.” 

 

“Unless you’re suggesting we send Billy to try to be subtle about something, which I would suggest against, I don’t see any other option,” Silver points out. “What are you thinking?” 

 

“I know someone who might be able to tell us,” Max tells them. “One of the girls I used to work with has an ear to the ground regarding such meetings. If Eleanor and Vane have met recently regarding the gold, Idelle would know about it."

 

She looks at Silver, then. “I believe you might remember her. She’s that tattoo artist who I believe you had an _experience_ with.” 

 

“Did he, now?” Flint asks, looking far too interested in this bit of information. Silver feels an urge to collapse beside one of the dead men as Flint looks at him up and down, his gaze not even the slightest bit shameless.

 

“Before you ask, I have had all regrettable tattoos from my youth removed,” Silver tells him, then glares at Max. “Idelle? _Really_?” 

 

“I believe she might have a soft spot for John,” Max says with a smile that’s sweet like poison. “It also provides us the perfect cover.” 

 

 

•••

 

“I’ve just come back from the dead,” Flint promptly says as soon as Silver brings it up the next day, and really, he’s a little too comfortable to be pulling that card so quickly. “How do we know that I won’t have some reaction to the ink? Perhaps ex-deceased individuals aren’t supposed to get tattoos."

 

“ _Reaction_ \- I’m the one who brings things back from the dead,” Silver argues, as another driver cuts him off while he’s trying to merge lanes. They’re driving to the tattoo parlor that Max had given them directions to, and he had raised the point that while they’re trying to get information out of Idelle, one of them is at least going to get a very small tattoo. 

 

He honks his horn aways, making a rude gesture at the driver as Flint holds onto the handle above the door. “If anything, I should be worried about a _reaction_.” 

 

“It’s just ink, John,” Flint says in an infuriatingly even tone, that hypocrite. “Besides, you already have a few."

 

“And you don’t?” Silver throws back. 

 

“No, I don’t."

 

"I thought you sailor types were supposed to be tatted up for good luck."

 

“I wasn’t a particularly good officer,” Flint says, and Silver scoffs, because out of everything, he doubts Flint could be bad at anything  - other than obeying laws, that is. “But maybe that explains some of the bad luck.”

 

Shit. He hadn’t meant to bring it up. Silver glances over at him, tries to read Flint’s expression, to see if it’s anything like the raw pain on his face when he had told him about the Hamiltons. But Flint’s face is impassive as he looks out their windshield, not even wincing as Silver honks the car horn again, this time at a slow driver in front of them.

 

“If she suggests a tramp stamp, I’m out,” Silver tells him, and he sees Flint run a hand over his face, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smirk. 

 

So that’s how Silver ends up lying face down and shirtless on paper that sticks to his abdomen and chest, while Idelle applies a stencil to his bare shoulder blade. “This will look _amazing_ ,” she enthuses, and Silver gives her a half-smile, half-grimace as he turns to press his face into the paper.

 

“He’s just a little wary of needles,” Flint tells her. He’s leaning on the closed door, arms crossed as he watches them. “He was so  _insistent_  on this last night, I’m surprised he’s being so recalcitrant right now.” 

 

Silver is going to kill him, preferably by strangling him with gloves so that it lasts a long time. 

 

Idelle’s fingers pause from where they’re smoothing the paper. “You all right there?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters into the paper. “Just a little nervous.”

 

The buzzing from the needle starts, and Silver focuses on the paper, nearly missing when Flint asks, “So, have you been a tattoo artist for long?” 

 

“Oh, yeah, for ages,” Idelle says. “You’re Max’s cousin, was it?” 

 

“Yes,” Flint says. “Very distant, but no less fond."

 

The needle is a sharp pain at first, but it slowly fades into something much more like an ache as Idelle continues for a few moments. Silver focuses on the bite of the needle, the faint hum that travels down his back. It’s been a while, but eventually, he ignores the pain in favor of listening to Flint shift around on the other side of the room. 

 

“You in town to visit her, then?” Idelle asks in between her steady work. “Can’t say I’ve heard much about you.” 

 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Flint says. Silver turns his head carefully to look at him. His eyes are on Silver for a moment, before flicking back up to look at Idelle. “I used to be in law enforcement, so I don’t get many holidays. It’s nice to spend some quality time with her at last.” 

 

“Law enforcement,” Idelle echoes, brushing away some ink from Silver’s shoulder, “You happen to know Eleanor, then?"

 

“I think I’ve heard of her,” Flint says casually. “Her ex - Guthrie, right?” 

 

“She’s the rising star of the department, they say,” Idelle says. The needle passes over a sensitive place on Silver’s skin that makes him go tight all over for a moment, and he blinks hard. “I liked her and Max enough together, but Eleanor’s going steady with some asshole now, see, so she clearly has no taste now that she and Max are done. Not that you heard it from me, yeah?” 

 

“A shame,” Flint says. The disinterest that he plays now as he checks his phone before looking back at Idelle for a second, nearly sheepishly, could win him an acting award. “You know the man?” 

 

The needle stops. “He’s got some shady background,” Idelle says, sounding nearly conspiratorial as she leans over him. “You’ll have to ask Max about him, she knows who he is. But Eleanor and him are tight now, ever since Edward Teach was killed - you heard about that, right?” 

 

“I recognize the name,” Flint says.

 

“Rumor is that Eleanor’s getting everyone on her side ever since Teach washed up,” Idelle says, and she starts once again. Silver closes his eyes. “But I’m sure you’ve heard all about this, haven’t you, officer - ?” 

 

“Barlow,” Flint says, “James Barlow, ma’am.” 

 

“Officer Barlow, your man’s awfully quiet over here.” 

 

 Flint huffs out something that might be a laugh, and he looks far too smug when Silver opens his eyes. “You all right there, John?” he asks. 

 

“Just peachy,” Silver grits out. “Are you nearly done, Idelle?” 

 

“This one,” Idelle says, starting once again, “Absolutely no pain tolerance. Learned that when I tried to bring in some handcuffs - well, I’m sure you know.” 

 

Silver presses his face right into the paper as Flint asks, “You two were together?”

 

“Oh, we were never dating,” Idelle says, and Silver is seriously reconsidering all his life choices. “Met up a few times for some late nights, if you catch my drift. Nothing to be jealous of, though. He’s lucky to have an _officer_  beau now.” 

 

“I’m not the jealous sort,” Flint says, and he sounds amused. “John? You’re looking rather pale.” 

 

“Just fine, _darling_ ,” Silver says, and he’s rewarded with Idelle’s low laugh, but even more so by the look on Flint’s face when he glances up. Flint gives him another one of those lingering looks before he asks Idelle about post-tattoo maintenance. 

 

 

•••

 

 

Max wipes down the counters, the motions methodical and practiced. In the corner, the radio’s playing some soft music, and she needs to go over and adjust the antenna when she can barely make out the chorus anymore. 

 

Silver and Flint should be back soon, and as the last customers leave, her thoughts are consumed with what’s to come, with Eleanor, Vane, Rogers - 

 

The bell tinkles, and since she can't hear either John or Flint arguing, Max says without looking up, “We’re closed - “

 

“Hey.” The voice is rough, low, and familiar. Max looks up with a start, and Anne is there, watching her. She’s wearing a hat that’s pulled low over her eyes, but she recognizes the tilt in her mouth as she says, “Took me a while to find this joint.”

 

Max sets down the cloth. “You couldn’t see the sign?” 

 

 “What’s with that - the Pie Hole, is it?”

 

Max smiles a little as she comes out from behind the counter. “The name wasn’t my idea,” she says. “My friend was rather unimaginative when it came down to it. Would you care for some pie?” 

 

As she steps closer, Anne looks - nervous, for a moment, before she visibly tamps down the emotion in favor of a scowl. “I didn’t come here - “ she cuts herself off, seems to gather herself before starting again, “I wanted to say sorry.”

 

“Sorry?” Max questions. 

 

“I wasn’t in a good place when you were at the house,” Anne says, haltingly. “Someone I knew just died.”

 

Sympathy curls in her. “I’m sorry,” she says. 

 

“I wanted to come here because I don’t know if I’ll be back,” Anne says then, and her boots are no doubt making marks on the freshly cleaned floor where she’s scuffing them, but Max can’t bring herself to care. “Y’know. You don’t - owe me anything, but I wanted to let you know.”

 

“What, this was so hard to find on a map?” Max says lightly, but there’s a certain scrutiny in Anne’s eyes that makes her stop now as she tilts her head up to look at her. “Why?”

 

“I meant I might be going,” Anne says. “There’s - not much keeping me here, not now. My partner and I, we might be making a new start somewhere.”

“Oh,” Max says. For the little time she’s spent with the woman, she’s surprised at the intensity of how that hits her. “You’re leaving town?” 

 

“Yeah,” Anne says. “I don’t - I don’t know why I came.“

 

She turns as if to leave, but then Max steps forward, catching her arm. Anne freezes at the touch, and Max lets go, her hand floating somewhere between them. “Anne,” she says, “I’ll miss you.” 

 

The other woman makes some sort of scoffing noise in her throat. “Nah,” she says, “We barely know each other - “

 

“You told me about when you first met Jack,” Max says, and she moves forward. “You told me about him, the first man you loved. You told me about the first woman you loved.”

 

If Anne looked nervous before, it’s an entirely new level of shock as Max gets closer. Her gaze darts to the side as though she’s expecting Max to walk right by. “You told me of the people you’ve lost, the ones you care about. Now, I can get you some pie, and you can be on your way - but I don’t think that’s what you’re here for.” 

 

“Yeah?” Anne says, likely for challenging, but Max - Max can see her, now. “If you’re so sure, what the fuck am I here for then?” 

 

Max steps right into her space. When Anne breathes in, quick and sharp, Max tilts her face up, and she kisses her.

 

She keeps it light, not wanting to overstep any more than she might have. But as Anne exhales, ragged against her mouth, she thinks that she might have judged this correctly. 

 

Anne’s hands come up, and for a moment, Max thinks that she’s going to push her away, but then her hands - cooler than Max would have guessed, calloused but by no means not gentle - come up to cup Max’s jaw, drawing her close. 

 

Max breaks the kiss first, pulling back a little. “Goodbye,” she says, and she can see Anne’s eyes dip down to look back at her mouth. “That was a goodbye for you.” 

 

“That’s not a goodbye kiss,” Anne tells her, and from up close, her eyes are a startling color that reminds her of the sea. “You - you gotta know that.” 

 

“Isn’t it?” 

 

“That’s not - “ Anne seems to forgo words in favor of tugging her close again, and Max smiles against her mouth as they kiss, among the gleaming black and white tiles at their feet, the radio in the corner more static than music at this point, Anne nearly insistent as she licks into Max’s mouth. 

 

It’s perfect, right up until Max realizes what she’s doing. Anne can’t be here, not when John and Flint are due to be back any moment. She doesn't know about Flint - and the truth of that makes her think that she should be telling Anne to leave, separate herself from this before it gets messy. 

 

But there’s always been that greedy part of her, the one that had driven her all this time. So instead of gently pushing Anne away, telling her the truth - she takes her hand. “I live upstairs,” Max tells her, and she pushes down the guilt. 

 

 

•••

 

They stop off at the drugstore on the way back, the night interrupted by the haze of the neon sign outside. Silver picks up lotion for his new tattoo, some milk and other supplies that he was running low in. 

 

Flint, who had refused to stay in the car, is decked out in a pair of Max’s sunglasses from the dashboard compartment, a beanie hat pulled over his ears for good measure. He hovers by Silver, occasionally picking up items and setting them back down as they pass through the aisles. 

 

It’s all rather domestic, Silver catches himself thinking, even as his shoulder throbs each time he moves it too quickly. Flint sees the lotion that Silver had picked out, and silently replaces it with another, more expensive one that no doubt will be better at protecting his new body art.

 

No tattoos - like Silver’s going to believe that. 

 

“He gets cold easily,” Silver tells the cashier, who looks over Flint rather dubiously but doesn’t say another word as he rings them out. 

 

Back in the car, Flint rummages through the plastic bags that are in his lap. “Cellophane?” he asks. “I thought you’d have some in the bakery.” 

 

“You have no idea how much I go through on a daily basis,” Silver says. “Plus, I like the crinkle it makes. So useful.”  

 

“Your tattoo,” Flint says suddenly, as Silver digs around for his keys somewhere in his pocket. “Why did you choose it?”

 

Idelle had had a book of designs prepared when they arrived, and when Silver had opened it up, he had seen it. It was the outline of two sharks circling each other, the lines clean and neat, the shapes fluid from the tips of their noses to their fins and tails. He had been drawn to it in its simplicity, and even though there were smaller tattoos in the book that he could have selected, he had picked it instantly. 

 

He considers telling Flint that it was just the first thing that he saw, but really, that isn’t all the way true. “A lot of fish have a sort of bladder that keeps them floating,” Silver tells him, and Flint leans forward as though he's making sure he hears Silver's every word. “But sharks, they don’t have it. If they stop moving, they sink in the water, helpless without the water moving over their gills.” 

 

Flint’s eyes go to his shoulder like he can see right through him to the ink on the far side of his flesh. His fingers are still looped in the plastic bag handles, Silver notices when he glances down. He adds without looking up, “I suppose I liked the idea of the two circling each other, forever moving as long as they can. One shark, he's just going on and on until he dies, but two - there’s something poetic about it, I thought. It's like they’re forever running away from each other.” 

 

“Or chasing each other,” Flint murmurs. When Silver looks up, he’s now staring right at him with a sort of intensity that makes him feel like he’s the one who’s been swimming all this time. 

 

Carefully, so that he doesn’t accidentally brush up against Flint’s bare skin, Silver reaches into the plastic bag. He takes out the box of cellophane, even as he can see a wrinkle in Flint’s forehead form, opening it up right there in the car. 

 

He doesn’t say anything, though, not as Silver tears off a piece of plastic. He makes himself glance at it, making sure there are no tears, before leaning forward with the piece stretched out in his hands. 

 

Flint must realize what Silver’s doing, for he meets him midway, leaning over the console in the car as their lips meet.

 

It’s dangerous, risky - and yet Silver can’t care. If this is as close as he’s ever going to get, he’s going to take it now. Through the plastic, he can feel Flint’s warmth seeping through where their lips meet, the cautious movement of his mouth against Silver’s. 

 

If he wished that he could feel Flint against him before, it’s nothing compared to now, as Flint makes something like a pleased sound against his mouth. As Silver kisses him through the plastic, he can pretend that he can taste Flint’s mouth - maybe it’s stale from the coffee this morning, a little sweet from the strawberry rhubarb pie he had helped himself to. When Flint kisses back, their noses bump against each other, a little clumsy as Silver has to struggle to remember to breathe.

 

For a moment, he lets himself picture a world in which he can drop the plastic, tangle his fingers in Flint’s hair, tug him closer and swallow every sound he makes. But for now, he contents himself with the cautious slide of their mouths together, the sounds that are low in Flint’s throat, the way that Flint leans forward when Silver pulls back ever so slightly. Even if this is setting - it’s more than he could’ve hoped for. 

 

He pulls back after a few moments, breathing heavily, and Flint mirrors him. “It’s a nice tattoo,” Flint says, finally, as Silver slowly lowers the plastic. His lips look a little damp where they’re parted, his eyes half-lidded. 

 

Silver curls his fists into the plastic, crumpling it up, fixed on the slightly dazed look in Flint's eyes as he watches Silver, unable to touch, unable to do more than sit across from him and look. 

 

He thinks to himself,  _maybe that’s why sharks are solitary creatures._

 

“I thought so,” Silver settles on saying, before he turns the key in the ignition once again. 

 

 

•••

 

 

There’s a light on in the back when they get back, though the door is locked when he jiggles the handle. Silver unlocks it, stepping into the warmth of the bakery. 

 

“Max?” Silver calls. He holds the door open for Flint. “You there?” 

 

There’s a clatter in the back, the beep of an oven timer, but no response. Silver meets Flint’s eyes. “That’s probably her.” 

 

 “Stress baking?” Flint suggests, adjusting the bags in his arms. 

 

“Have you even ever baked? It’s not the most relaxing thing."

 

“Says the baker.” 

 

“I’m good at what I do,” Silver says, “There’s a difference.”

 

“Go check,” Flint says, “Then you can come tell me about it. I’ll be upstairs.”

 

This is truly one of the worst ideas that he’s ever had, Silver thinks to himself. Despite the heat in Flint’s gaze, Silver shivers as he turns away, running a hand through his hair. Flint starts up the stairs leading to the apartment, and he goes over to the back. 

 

Silver flicks on the light, and he freezes. He recognizes the face instantly from the mugshots that have been plastered all over television, even as its owner's head snaps up to look at him. 

 

“What the fuck,” Charles Vane says like he isn’t the one who’s just been caught breaking and entering into a bakery. He’s holding a rolling pin in one hand, inexplicably, as Silver stares, his hand still on the light switch. 

 

“You know, I would really appreciate it if people stop breaking in here,” Silver says. “This is a _nice_ establishment.” 

 


	4. a la mode

Silver has seen his life flash in front of him two times this week, and he’d like to avoid this from becoming a pattern. While Charles Vane advances on him, gun in one hand, rolling pin in the other, a small, semi - hysterical part of his brain thinks, _I should’ve become a car salesman._

 

“Really, that’s not necessary,” Silver says carefully, “I have no doubt that you could use either one of those by themselves to suit your purpose.” 

 

“Shut up,” Vane grunts, but he sets down the gun after another moment. Which Silver would be thankful for, if only he wasn’t still holding the rolling pin like he’s about to brain him. Which  - 

 

Silver glances towards the swinging doors for a second, and Vane’s eyes flit in the same direction a moment later. 

 

“Someone with you?” 

 

“Just me,” Silver says quickly. If there was a moment in which he might really need Flint to show up, it would be just about now, before he discovers Silver beaten to death by his own baking implement. Vane steps forward, and Silver sidesteps to the side, around the table, keeping his eyes firmly on him. 

 

“I recognize you,” he says then, aiming for nonchalant and probably landing somewhere between terrified and, well, extremely terrified. “You’re - on the news.”

 

“Lots of people on the news,” Vane grunts, tapping the rolling pin ominously on the counter's surface as he takes another step closer, eyeing Silver. “You were asking about me, and I’ve come for answers."

 

_Fucking_ Idelle _._ “Maybe I’m just invested in mysterious benefactors,” Silver says, circling the large metal table as Vane tries to advance around the other side. “You’re the mystery buyer of those dozen rhubarbs a month, aren’t you?”

 

“Shut up,” Vane orders, pointing the rolling pin right at him. “What do you want?” 

 

“All I want,” Silver says, “Is to make some pies in peace. Make a nice living, maybe get married, have a few curly haired kids, you know, every good baker’s dream - “

 

In between breaths, Vane comes around one side of the kitchen island too quickly, and then there’s a rolling pin shoved underneath Silver’s chin. “I’m only going to ask you once again,” Vane warns, and Silver swallows as the pin presses right up against his throat, forcing his head up. “What the fuck do you want?” 

 

“You knew James Flint,” Silver gets out, and then when Vane doesn’t move to hit him, he adds more cautiously, “I’m…. interested in the conditions surrounding his death. My partner and I, we’ve been looking for you  -  ” 

 

“How do you know Flint?”

 

“I knew him when we were younger,” Silver says. "I heard about his death - please, I’ll talk faster when I’m certain you’re not about to murder me!"

 

Vane inexplicably snorts, and Silver can’t help but let out a small sigh of relief when he lowers the pin. “Talk quickly,” he warns, as Silver rubs his throat. 

 

“From what I remembered about Flint, I knew that he didn’t just die nicely,” Silver says, using every last bit of his convincing voice in this moment. “I heard that he was involved in some business - one that you are no doubt a part of, and so I was seeking out... answers."

 

“If you know who I am, you must be an idiot to think you’d want to find me.” Vane lifts the pin once again, prodding him in the chest. “What are you looking for?” 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the gun on the counter. “Answers,” Silver repeats, and the truth helps to strengthen the resolve behind his words. “Someone needs to answer for Flint’s death. I’m sure a man like you would understand."

 

Vane snorts again, far from kindly, but he doesn’t crush Silver’s skull either. “You want revenge? And how exactly did you think you were going to get this?” 

 

“Well - “ Silver starts, and then there’s footsteps coming from behind Vane, and he can feel his eyes go wide. “Shit - don’t - “

 

But it’s too late, as Vane turns around, just in time for Flint to push open the doors - holding a cereal box, out of everything, and reading the back. “We’re out of milk,“ Flint starts, then glances up at the scene in front of him.

 

“No fucking way,” Vane says, his broad back turned to Silver, disbelief coloring his tone. 

 

There’s a long, stretched out moment where Flint’s eyes go between Vane and Silver, then the gun, and Silver thinks, _Don’t do it, you_ fool _-_

 

Vane whirls to the counter, picking up the gun, but then Flint’s throwing the cereal box right at his head before tackling him around the waist. Silver just barely manages to get out of the way as Flint and Vane go sprawling by him, landing on the ground with a loud crash. 

 

There’s swearing, muffled grunting, as Flint is then thrown off of the other man, hitting the fridge with a thud. From his limited angle, he sees Vane dragging Flint down by his ankles, barely avoiding getting kicked in the head until Flint manages to shake him off with another curse as they roll away. 

 

“Now come on - “ Silver looks around desperately for some sort of weapon. He can hear them grappling, just as he picks up a sheet pan. Then a single shot rings out, and there’s silence. 

 

Silver steels himself as he scurries around the corner, but instead of either Flint or Vane bleeding out, he’s met with the sight of the two of them lying on the ground, panting heavily. Vane’s holding his eye and scowling, and there’s blood slowly welling out from Flint’s nose, but neither appear shot. The gun’s between them, as Silver grips more onto the metal pan, and Flint spits blood out onto the tiles. 

 

“Jesus,” Vane says with a wince. “It’s really you.” 

 

“Who else would I be?” Flint rasps. 

 

“I saw you get a bullet and sink,” Vane says, and when he removes his hand, there’s a nasty cut bisecting his eyebrow. “Not quite sure how you worked your way around that.” 

 

“I was dead. Now I’m not.”

 

“The fuck does that mean?” Vane looks like he’s about to take another swing at him, as Silver keeps his grip on the sheet pan just in case. “Do you know _how many problems_ you’ve caused  - “

 

“You’re both going to be truly dead if that’s a bullet hole I see in my oven,” Silver snaps finally, and both of them look at him. “No more fighting."

 

“Apologies,” Flint says. “He was going to shoot me.” 

 

“I still might if you don’t explain just what you mean,” Vane bites back. 

 

Flint looks at Silver with a raised eyebrow, and Silver sighs. “I bring things back to life,” he tells him, and both of Vane’s eyebrows go up as well. “Flint was dead, and I brought him back.”

 

Vane looks back at Flint, then at him. “You’re serious?” 

 

“Deadly,” Flint says, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s good to see you, Charles.” 

 

“Fuck you, Flint,” Vane tells him, but he looks much less wound up. 

 

At that moment, Max pushes open the doors, hurrying in. Flint grabs the gun before Vane can shoot her, though, as her eyes go wide at the sight of the three of them. “Was that a gunshot?” she demands, looking between the three of them. 

 

“This is Charles Vane,” Silver tells her. “Also, Flint shot our oven.”

 

“I didn't _intentionally_ \- "

 

“Anne is upstairs right now,” Max says, cutting off Flint as she steps forward, taking the pan that Silver forgot he was holding neatly from his hands. She setting it down with a thud on the counter, pulling her robe more around her after she does so. While her voice doesn’t change, there’s something hard in her eyes as she looks back over at Flint. “Unless you would like to explain to her just where you’ve been this past week, I would stop shooting at people in this bakery.  You are lucky that only I woke up.” 

 

“Jack and Anne both don’t know, I take it,” Vane says, and the stony expression on Flint’s face serves as an answer. “Huh. You always were a bit of a bastard.” 

 

“We’ll go to my apartment,” Silver says, resisting the urge to hit himself with the pan now as now Flint looks like the one who’s about to take a swing at Vane. “Flint?”

 

The man nods, once, and pushes himself up. As Vane gets up too, Silver turns to Max, adding under his breath, “And why, exactly, is Anne Bonny upstairs?” 

 

Max gives him a long look, and then she pushes by him without a response. Silver thinks that for all that he’s put her through this past week, he might deserve that  \- even if he’s going to need an answer to that question sooner rather than later. 

 

 

•••

 

Max finishes making her cup of tea. She wants nothing more than to go back to her bed, back to the woman who’s still lying in her sheets. She can nearly imagine  the lingering touch of Anne’s hand on her skin, the ways her eyes tracked her  -

 

But as she listens to Flint tell Charles Vane about the situation, that sickeningly familiar guilt is back, curling up her stomach and into her throat. Anne’s bared herself to Max, confided in her, and now she’s repaying her by lying  \- by colluding with all of them. 

 

She can’t think about that though, not know. Max  tells herself, if it hadn’t been for John’s meddling with all of this, she wouldn’t even know that Anne knew Flint. But the thought doesn’t bring her any comfort, not when Anne had told her about Flint, told her about that loss. 

 

Max drags her attention back to the scene in front of her. John’s staring at Flint as he talks, and she thinks that for a man who hides so much of his past, the look on his face shouldn’t be quite as open as it is right in this moment. It seems that she is not the only one with emotional loss possible in this game, although she certainly doesn’t envy him, not with his case. 

 

Flint finishes his tale, and as Vane seems to digest his words, he dabs at his bloodied nose. John’s fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach out and help  \- and Max thinks about short red hair splayed out on her pillow, just a room away, before she can catch herself. 

 

For a moment, she’s caught off guard by the nearly blistering rage that flares up, aimed at Flint.  John looks at him like that, and yet the man is too busy with the _fucking gold_  and Vane to look back - let alone the fact that he’s been given this second opportunity. Some men have it all in front of them, and they lose it all when they don’t know where to look.

 

But Max doesn’t let her expression flicker, not even when Flint glances over at her, catches her eye. She doesn’t cow under his gaze, and after a moment, Flint looks back at Vane, the faintest line appearing in his brow. 

 

“Teach is dead again, then,” Vane grunts, finally in the silence that stretches out. “Would’ve thought he would outlive you at least."

 

“Do you know who killed him?” Flint asks. 

 

“That bastard Rogers,” Vane says, and now Max meets John’s eyes. “He’s the one who got you too.” 

 

John looks away from her, back at Flint. “ _He_ shot you?” he asks Flint. 

 

Flint lets out a long breath. “I didn’t know.”

 

“I was late to our meeting, which is the only reason I’m not some zombie too,” Vane says, leaning back. “Since you’re  once again breathing, I assume that Rogers doesn’t know your death didn’t stick.” 

 

Since John seems preoccupied staring at him, Max asks Vane, “And the gold?” 

 

“Hidden,” Vane answers her. “Only I know, and I’m not about to tell any of you, either.” 

 

Flint nods, and Max watches as he asks, “And Rogers?” 

 

“What about him?” 

 

“Does he know you have the gold?” 

 

“He’s the one who’s trying to kill me, so yeah,” Vane says. “And I think he’s trying to get Jack and Anne next.” 

 

Max’s hand falls to her side, but on its way down, it strikes the side of the chair with a low thud. The sound makes three pairs of eyes fall on her, as she hisses with a vehemence surprising to even her own ears, “You didn’t think to mention that?” 

 

“I didn’t know he’d go after them,” Vane says, his eyes narrow. “The fuck’s it to you, anyway?” 

 

“Then you must not know much at all,” Max snaps, and that anger is back. “You all don’t realize what is at stake here.  Rogers will come after all of us. Men with power like him  _will do that_ .” 

 

“Max,” John says, “Can we _talk for a moment_?” 

 

“No, I think I’m done,” Max says, and she turns on her heel. She can hear John make some sort of protest, the low answer of Flint’s voice, as she closes the door. 

 

Back in her own apartment, Max closes the door to see Anne in the living room. 

 

Anne’s in the middle of retying her boots, freezing as Max looks down at her. Her clothing’s rumpled like she’s pulled it on in a hurry as she turns her head to look back at Max, before setting down her boot slowly back on the ground. 

 

“Thought I heard your voice across the hall,” she says, low, as Max tries to catch her eye. “You didn’t have to leave your own place.” 

 

“I wasn't, “ Max starts, then stops. “I was going to come back - “ 

 

“Save it,” Anne says sharply, even as she softens the more she looks at her, but there’s something hurt growing in its place instead. “Listen, I have to go.” 

 

“Anne  -  “

 

“I told you, me and Jack were heading out,” Anne says, and now she won’t meet Max’s eyes. Something sinks in her stomach as the woman continues, “This was - shit, I don’t know. It was something. But I have to go  -  “

 

Maybe it’s foolish desperation, the thought of never seeing her again, _anything_ , that makes Max loose sense for a moment. “Anne,” she says, getting her attention, “I know about Vane.” 

 

“The fuck?” Anne says, standing up suddenly, her boots thumping on the ground. “What do you mean?” 

 

“I know that you and Jack knew him, that you all worked together,” Max says, and she raises her hands as if to placate. “Anne, you must listen  -  “

 

“Don’t,” Anne warns now, and there are two bright spots of color high on her cheeks as she inhales, sharp. “Tell me now, Max. What do you know?” 

 

“My partner, he works with a private investigator,” Max says. “He learned about the death of one James Flint - “ and she sees Anne suck in another surprised breath, “-and I didn’t know that that was the man you spoke of, not until quite recently.” 

 

“All of this has been fucking recent,” Anne snaps, and her eyes go back and forth like she’s expecting Max to pull a gun on her or something. “You work for Rogers, then?” 

 

“Of course not,” Max says, impatient. “Anne, you must believe me - “ 

 

“So that’s what this was, yeah?” Anne demands. “To get that gold, you have to fuck one of us? What, you thought that I’d be easier to get at?” 

 

“Never,” Max says. “Anne, you have to listen to me  \- what you and Jack are involved in, there is danger -  “

 

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Anne spits out, and she walks around the couch, past Max, her hands clenching at her sides. Max tries to reach for her, but she jerks  away at the last moment, Max’s fingertips passing within mere inches of her arm. 

 

“Anne - “ and Max cuts herself off as the door slams shut in response, and she’s left standing there. 

 

 

•••

 

Vane goes off, probably to meddle around in Silver’s belongings or something, but Silver and Flint stay in the living room. They carefully sit on opposite ends of the couch, but if Silver closes his eyes, he can imagine leaning into Flint’s side, the warmth radiating from him. 

 

“She doesn’t like me,” Flint says into the space, breaking Silver free of his thoughts. “Max.” 

 

“Yeah, well, you haven’t exactly been the most trustworthy figure she’s known,” Silver says without thinking, then he closes his eyes. “I didn’t mean that.”

 

“It’s fine.” 

 

“She’ll come around,” Silver says. “This  \- it’s been tough. And I didn’t know about her and Anne.” 

 

“That was unexpected,” Flint says. “Though I suppose out of everything that’s come up, that’s one of the nicer developments. ”

 

“Not for long, most likely,” Silver says, and he leans back into the couch, feeling himself sink a little into the cushion. “Max’ll tell Anne that she knows about - I don’t know, you or Vane or the gold, and I doubt that she’ll react well.” 

 

“People have been through worse, and relationships can survive far more,” Flint says, and there seems to be some sort of melancholy weight behind his words. Silver turns his head so that he can look at him, as Flint continues, “There is too much in this world for that not to be the case.” 

 

“I don’t know,” Silver says, and his voice comes out barely more than a whisper. But Flint leans in, like he wants to catch all of those words that float out in between them. “Maybe some things aren’t meant to last.” 

 

“Maybe,” Flint says, “But maybe not.” He leans back, then, and Silver watches his profile, illuminated by the lamp near their heads. Flint’s eyelashes are pale, nearly invisible even as Silver looks right at him, as he lets out a long breath. “Maybe it’s not about how long it lasts.” 

 

The moment seems to be a rare moment of peace, enough so that Silver hates to ruin it, but he has to. He begins, “When this all started  \-  you told me that the end was inevitable. That after all of this, I would touch you, and it would be over.” 

 

“All of this, it feels like stolen time,” Flint says. "I’ve lived my life, made my choices.” He glances over at Silver, then, his eyes half lidded. “I don’t want you to feel guilty because of it. This is my choice, even if it’s you - doing it.” 

 

“But what if it doesn’t have to be like that?” Silver says then. Flint opens his eyes fully. “What if - what if there’s another way?” 

 

“I died,” Flint says. “I can’t escape that. Your gift or not, this - this was always going to be temporary."

 

“But what if there is another way,” Silver starts, his voice feeling too loud as he says, “What if it wasn’t inevitable - “  

 

They’re interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps coming towards them, and they both sit up again. Vane appears in the living room, and he has a cell phone in his hand. 

 

“I called Eleanor,” he says, and Flint and Silver look at each other before they both snap their heads back to Vane, the moment over. 

 

“Eleanor?” Silver asks, incredulous. “As in _Detective_ Eleanor Guthrie - “ 

 

“You know her?” 

 

“She’s kind of Max’s ex,” Silver says, and Vane lets out what sounds like an amused snort. “As in, not a huge fan of this place _one bit_  - “ 

 

“Ah,” Flint says. “I mean, the detective part is more surprising  -  the Guthries aren’t exactly the most law -fearing family. But you know she would have your phone tracked, _right?”_

 

“I’m counting on it,” Vane says. “We’re not on good terms, but she hates Rogers more than either of us, maybe. She might be willing to overlook our various crimes to get back at him.” 

 

“That’s little comfort considering she could have you arrested, Max and me thrown in as well, not to mention - “ Silver gestures at Flint. “Well.” 

 

“She can’t know I’m alive,” Flint says. “They recovered my body. She probably _saw_ my body. How did you think you were going to explain that?"

 

“So then hide,” Vane says. “She should be here in about fourteen minutes.” 

 

“I’m not going to fucking _hide_ -  “

 

“Flint, go into the bedroom,” Silver says. “If she’s coming here, we need to make sure you don’t get hauled off to prison for  \- I don’t know, faking your death? Various pre-death criminal activity?” 

 

“I know Eleanor,” Flint says then, turning to him. His jaw visibly tenses as he continues, “We ran into each other a few times. She hates you, Charles, but since this is going to happen  -  she could listen to me.” 

 

“She thinks you’re dead,” Silver says to him. “Do you think you can explain that away?”

 

“I suppose we’ll have to see,” Flint says. He looks at Silver, and gives the tiniest nod  \- and well, Silver’s going to sign his death warrant one way or another. That feeling is back, growing in his stomach - and he can’t think about this now, not when they have to move. 

 

“Fine,” Silver says, and Flint turns his head away like he’s forced to. “Vane, we’ll meet her downstairs.“ 

 

“And _when exactly_ did you get the idea that I’d follow your command?” Vane says, something close to a sneer on his face. 

 

“Because otherwise, I’ll get that gun and shoot you again,” Flint says, menacing in a way that makes Silver remember the thick police file they had on him, “And this time, I won’t miss.” 

 

 

•••

 

 

Eleanor Guthrie is shorter than Silver remembered, with a blond ponytail and the sort of sharp look to her eyes that Silver immediately associates with the sort of people who wouldn’t hesitate to throw him in jail just to make a point. He had only met her in passing before her and Max’s relationship had gone up in flames  \- partially literally - , and the look she gives him doesn’t exactly make his recollection of her any fonder. 

 

“Mr. Silver,” Eleanor says, glancing down at her notepad before back up at him. Silver looks behind her, at the two officers that have come with her, as she says, “You are the owner of this establishment, correct?” 

 

“Co -owner,” Silver says. “Uh - we’ve met.” 

 

“I recall,” Eleanor says, and then her eyes go wide. Silver turns, just in time to see Vane through the round window at the front of the bakery, just standing there. He looks back at Eleanor, who glances between Vane and Silver for a long moment. 

 

“Please, detective,” Silver says, before she can start pulling out handcuffs. “If I could just have a moment of your time  -  “

 

Eleanor looks at him for a long moment, before she nods once, brisk. “Three minutes,” she says nearly conversationally, “For Max. And then both you and him are coming with me to the station.” 

 

“Ah, just you, please,” Silver says, as the two officers step forward when Eleanor moves. “If you don’t mind, Detective Guthrie, there is…. the  sensitive kind of information that I would very much prefer only you knew about.” 

 

“Information?” 

 

“Incredibly sensitive,” Silver says, then, “Please. You can keep your gun if that helps.”

 

Eleanor’s eyes narrow, and she looks back at Vane through the window, who seems to be smirking. “If this is some sort of setup, then you get shot first,” she tells him, and then they’re going into the bakery. 

 

Thankfully, instead of staging some sort of grand, dramatic entrance, Flint is seated in one of the booths towards the side. He’s got one of Silver’s old sweatshirts on, the sleeves rolled up, as he says, “Eleanor.” 

 

“Jesus fuck,” Eleanor says, drawing her gun quickly. “Flint?” 

“I had about the same reaction,” Vane says, coming up behind them. “It’s good to see you, Eleanor.” 

 

“Fuck you, Charles,” Eleanor says to him, then her eyes go right back to Flint. “How did you manage this, then?” 

 

“Magic,” Flint says. “You need to know that Rogers is crooked.” 

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Eleanor says. “ _How are you alive_?” 

 

“The details don’t matter,” Flint says, “But Rogers  -  “

 

“He’s after the gold that _he’s_ stashed somewhere,” Eleanor says, jerking her head at Vane. “That’s why he called me, isn’t it? ”

 

“Well, yes,” Flint says. 

 

“Give me a good reason I shouldn’t have you all arrested right now,” Eleanor snaps then, and Silver sees her hands shake just a little around the gun before she visibly steels herself. “You somehow fake your death, help Vane hide the gold  -  “

 

“Rogers killed me,” Flint says. “Eleanor, this is sudden, but we need your help."

 

 

•••

 

“Well, this isn’t the most hospitable late-nightgathering that’s happened in here,” Silver says after a moment of silence.

 

"Silver,” Flint says, “Please, don’t talk right now.” 

 

They’re all gathered back in the kitchen - Flint, Max, Vane, Eleanor, and Silver. Eleanor seems torn between glaring at Vane and Flint, Flints’ eyes are fixed on Silver, Max looks like she just wants to lock them all in here and throw in a match, and Vane is scratching his nose. 

 

“Max,” Eleanor says. “It’s been a while.” 

 

Max levels her with a glare that Silver is absurdly glad isn’t aimed at him. Eleanor, glowering, looks down at her own crossed arms, while Vane  \- Vane starts to chew on one of Silver’s decorative toothpicks that he keeps in the side jar. 

 

“So, Rogers is after all of us, one way or another,” Flint says with another one last look toward Silver. “He thinks I’m dead, has tried to kill Vane  - “

 

“And he might as well try to have Silver and I arrested for harboring criminals, or perhaps he’ll plant some evidence in here, no?” Max finishes for him. “And what about her?” 

 

Eleanor frowns at her. “ _I_ might be of some use,” she says. “Since Rogers isn’t actively coming after me - “

 

“Oh, but you fucked him and left him too, so he doesn’t like you very much, does he?” Vane drawls, flipping the toothpick between his fingertips, his eyes fixed on Eleanor now. 

 

“Fuck you, Charles - “

 

“Enough,” Flint says, pinching his nose, and Silver’s rather inclined to agree. “We need to put aside… any _history_ , and focus on the challenge here. Rogers is coming after the gold, and he won’t stop until he gets it, or everyone involved is out of his way. Now, does anyone have a particular interest in just giving him the gold?”

 

No one says anything. Silver watches as Max crosses her arms like Eleanor, then at the fly that’s going around the sink. 

 

“I say we kill him,” Vane says. “Everyone will think it’s one of Teach’s men getting him for revenge. They can think it’s me, even. I don’t care.” 

 

“Do any of you care about maybe _not_  killing people?” Silver demands. 

 

“And when, exactly, did you gain moral superiority here?”

 

“Since it’s _my bakery_  that all of this is going to be traced back to, thank you very much - “

 

“I agree with Vane,” Max says suddenly, and everyone looks at her. “Getting rid of Rogers - I do not like it as a solution, but it might be the only way we ensure Anne and Jack’s safety.”

 

“If we kill Rogers, there will be others looking for him,” Eleanor points out. “I say we don’t.” 

 

“Eleanor’s right,” Flint says after a pause. “We can’t just kill Rogers. We need to keep him alive and implicate him in all of this so that he is no longer a problem. Then Vane can retrieve the gold, and we can all never be in this situation ever again.” 

 

“You say that like it’s easy,” Max says to him. “How would we pin anything on him?” 

 

“We would need to get him to somewhere we can control,” Flint says, and Silver honestly can’t tell if he’s thought about this in depth, or if perhaps he’s just this good at thinking on the spot, improvising the demise of some man. “We need him to think that he has the upper hand, and then catch him - “

 

“It’s too complicated,” Max says. “And what do you think, John?” 

 

The four eyes turn to Silver, who finds himself weighing both sides, still. He sees the benefits in killing Rogers, just getting the ordeal done with, making sure that Anne and Jack aren't dead at the end of the day. But he also understands how killing Rogers will only lead to more difficulties, the moral implications aside, and that Roger's death will cast the sort of scrutiny that none of them want.  Vane and Eleanor look at him expectantly, Max looks at him with something like a warning in her eyes, and Flint  - 

 

Flint  - 

  
At the end of the day, though, Silver knows who he trusts. It's not rational, but then again, he thinks that regarding Flint, he's never been quite put together, like there is some part of him that Flint contains, that Silver's willingly given to him. 

 

Silver says, “We know he’s going after Jack and Anne. They’re at that old house, and if he knows that, from there, we can trap Rogers.” 

 

Flint gives him the tiniest nod, even as Vane and Max start to argue. 

 

“This is - “

 

“That isn’t even a plan - “

 

“-don’t even know if he’ll go - "

 

“Enough,” Flint says, and his eyes catch Silver’s, drawing him in just like they always do. “Rogers will come to the house because I’m going to let him find out that I’m alive, and I'll be there, waiting." 


End file.
